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THE  WORKS  OF 
ORPHEUS    C.    KEISK. 


THE  ORPHEUS  C.  KERR  PAPERS.  A  new  edition  of 
these  famous  humorous  War  Letters,  being  a  condensa- 
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are  sold  everywhere,  and  will  be  sent  by  mail,  free 

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New    York. 


THE    CLOVEN    FOOT 


AN    ADAPTATION    OF    THE    ENGLISH    NOVEL 

"THE    MYSTERY    OF    EDWIN    DROOD," 

(gg  Cfcarlts 


'Co  o 

TO    AMERICAN    SCENES,    CHARACTERS,    CUSTOMS,     AND    NOMENCLATURE. 


BY 

ORPHEUS  C.  KERR, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  ORPHEUS  C.  KERR  PAPERS,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

Carleton,    Publisher,    Madison    Square. 


LONDON  :    S.  LOW,  SON   &   CO. 
MDCCCLXX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

GEORGE  W.   CARLETON, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Stereotyped  at  the 

WOMEN'S    PRINTING    HOUSE, 

Corner  Avenue  A  and  Eighth  Street, 

New  York. 


CONTENTS.* 


Page 

APOLOGY 7 


mts     .     .     .     .     .     .     •:   -  !        •    17 

SKETCH  OF  THE  ADAPTER      .        .        .        .        ;        .        -19 
CHAPTER     I.  —  DAYLIGHT  IN  THE  MORN         ...      23 
"  II.  —  A  DEAN,  AND  A  CHAP  OR  Two  ALSO         .      28 

"  III.  —  THE  ALMS-HOUSE  .  .  .  .  .  34 
"  IV.  —  MR.  SWEENEY  .  .  .  .  .41 

"  V.  —  MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND        .        .      48 

"          VI. — INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S  GULCH  .      54 

"  VII. — MORE  CONFIDENCES  THAN  ONE  .  .  61 
"  VIII.  —  A  DAGGERY  TYPE  OF  FOETALKRAPHY  .  67 
"  IX. — BALKS  IN  A  BRUSH  .  .  .  .  75 

"  X.  —  OILING  THE  WHEELS         ....      83 

"          XI.  —  A  PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL         ...      96 

*  The  titles  of  Chapters  in  "  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood"  are  as  follows  :  I., 
The  Dawn  ;  II.,  A  Dean,  and  a  Chapter  also ;  III.,  The  Nuns'  House  ;  IV.,  Mr.  Sap- 
sea  ;  V.,  Mr.  Durdles  and  Friend  ;  VI.,  Philanthropy  in  Minor  Canon  Corner ;  VII., 
More  Confidences  than  one;  VIII.,  Daggers  Drawn;  IX., "Birds  in  the  Bush;  X., 
Smoothing  the  Way ;  XL,  A  Picture  and  a  Ring ;  XII.,  A  Night  with  Durdles ; 
XIII.,  Both  at  their  Best;  XIV.,  When  shall  these  Three  meet  again?  XV.,  Im- 
peached; XVI.,  Devoted;  XVII.,  Philanthropy,  Professional  and  Unprofessional; 
XVIII.,  A  Settler  in  Cloisterham  ;  XIX.,  Shadow  on  the  Sun-Dial ;  XX.,  A  Flight ; 
XXL,  A  Recognition;  XXIL,  A  Gritty  State  of  Things  comes  on;  XXIII.,  The 
Dawn  again — .  .  .  . 

V 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 

CHAPTER  XII.  —  A  NIGHT  OF  IT  WITH  MCLAUGHLIN  .     1 12 

"  XIII.  —  FOR  THE  BEST          .,       .        .     v.        •     130 

"  XIV. — CLOVES  FOR  THREE          .        ...        .     144 

"  XV.  —  "SPOTTED"     .        ...        .        .156 

"  XVI.  —  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION     ....     166 

"  XVII.  —  INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE    .        .        .     177 

"  XVIII. — A  SUBTLE  STRANGER       .        .         .        .188 

"  XIX. — THE  H.  AND  H.  OF  J.  BUMSTEAD    .        .     198 

"         XX.  —  AN  ESCAPE 208 

"  XXI.  —  BENTHAM  TO  THE  RESCUE      .        .        .     218 

"  XXII. — A  CONFUSED  STATE  OF  THINGS      .        .     227 

"  XXIII.  —  GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORNING       .        .     240 


XXIV.  —  MR.  CLEWS  AT  HIS  NEW  NOVEL      .         .     245 

XXV.  — THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET    254 

XXVI.  —  FOR  BETTER,  FOR  WORSE       .        .        .     264 

XXVII.  —  SOLUTION          .        .        ...        .272 


APOLOGY. 


As  the  work  upon  which  the  great  Master  of  modern 
English  Fiction  was  engaged  when  death  claimed  all  of 
him  that  could  die,  the  half-finished  Mystery  of  Edwin 
Drood,  possesses  a  quality  far  beyond  the  estimation  of 
literary  criticism ;  and,  by  the  sympathetic  eloquence  even 
of  its  incompleteness,  is  more  preciously  suggestive  of  the 
immortal  Writer's  own  mortal  personality  than  is  any  one 
of  the  many  inimitable  creations  that  his  genius  was  per- 
mitted to  complete.  Perused  with  an  understanding  of  the 
intimate  relations  existing  between  intellectual  endeavor 
and  physical  and  moral  passivity,  it  has  a  positively  pain- 
ful interest,  as  a  revelation  of  the  tired  Worker  in  the  Work 
never  to  be  finished  ;  nobly  striving  to  compass  the  round 
fulness  of  a  living  reality  from  a  dying  dream,  and,  in  the 
occasional  unconscious  despair  of  prophetic  instinct,  invol- 
untarily showing  fate-struck  Nature  upon  the  page  as  the 
evening  shadow,  and  the  prayer,  of  faltering  Art. 

The  Story,  opening  with  an  elaboration  of  masterly  pur- 
pose in  which  the  strength  of  intense  concentration  for 
a  moment  counterfeits  the  strength  of  spontaneity,  soon 


8  APOLOGY. 

halts  with  the  halting  power  of  the  Story-teller  so  near  his 
rest;  then  turns  intractable  and  prone  to  break  beneath 
the  relaxing  hand  uncertain  of  its  former  cunning ;  a  little 
later,  shows  the  indomitable  mind,  constrained  almost  con- 
vulsively to  a  greater  light  because  of  the  approaching 
shadow  of  the  body's  dissolution,  and  in  its  darkening  premo- 
nitions throwing  a  shadow  of  that  shade,  and  even  a  de- 
fined portion  of  the  physical  struggle  against  it,*  upon  the 
wavering  mimic  scene ;  and,  at  tost,  breaks  off,  half  told, 
to  remain  the  tenderest  of  all  its  Master's  stories — the  story 
of  his  Death ! 

If  as  that,  alone,  the  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  could  be 
accepted  and  'estimated  by  the  critic,  its  completeness  in 
incompleteness  would  be  questioned  by  none  ;  but,  as  an 
effort  of  art,  in  which  the  artist  still  lives,  it  has,  and  must 
have,  another  aspect ;  and  in  the  latter  is  the  justification  of 
such  exacting  commentary,  as  unprejudiced  literary  judg- 
ment may  properly  award,  to  any  published  work  challeng- 
ing its  verdict.  The  half  of  the  novel  which  we  have,  is 
unmistakable  evidence  that  another  half  could  not  possibly 
have  formed  a  whole  in  any  way  equal  to  the  standard 
which  the  author's  previous  triumphs  had  erected  for  himself. 
To  read  it  critically,  is  to  believe  readily  the  current  report, 
that  its  writer  regarded  it  with  peculiar  uneasiness,  as  a 


*It  is  well  known  that  Mr.  Dickens  passed  so  many  hours  daily  in  the  open  air,  to 
keep  down  that  inherited  sanguine  tendency  to  the  brain,  of  which  he  ultimately 
died.  See  opening  of  Chapter  XII.  and  note  to  Chapter  XIV. 


APOLOGY.  9 

task  in  which  he  was  anything  but  confident  of  artistic  suc- 
cess, and  that,  after  committing  its  first  monthly  numbers  to 
the  press,  he  expressed  to  several  friends  a  fear  that  it  might 
injure  his  literary  reputation.  The  art  of  Dickens,  like  that 
of  all  great  genius,  comes  by  the  immediate  inspiration  of  his 
unpremeditated  sympathy  with  what,  to  others,  might  seem 
the  most  unlikely  of  human  subjects  ;  and  it  becomes  a  mere 
forced  and  lifeless  imitation  of  itself,  when,  as  in  this  case, 
anticipated  and  pledged  for  a  deliberately  complicated  plot 
and  what  is  called  a  psychological  study  of  abnormal  char- 
acter. Mr.  Jasper,  the  central  personage  of  the  Mystery,  is 
an  unwholesome  monstrosity,  of  which  the  writer  of  "  David 
Copperfield,"  even  in  the  fullest  flush  of  his  matchless 
powers,  could  never  have  made  happy  imaginative  use  ; 
and,  from  his  first  appearance  in  the  narrative,  there  is  an 
overwrought  laboriousness  of  mystification  about  him  which, 
in  illustration  of  extremes  meeting,  has  very  soon  the  awk- 
ward effect  of  making  him  no  mystery  at  all.  The  design 
of  representing  a  man  with  a  dual  existence,  in  one  phase 
of  which  he  intends  to,  and  thinks  he  does,  commit  murder, 
while  in  the  other  he  confounds  the  deed  and  doer  with  a 
personality  distinct  from  his  own,  is  kept  so  nervously  ap- 
parent at  the  beginning,  as  a  justification  of  the  plotted 
denottment,  that  any  reader  fairly  skilled  in  the  necessary- 
artistic  relations  of  one  part  of  a  story  to  another,  must 
derive  therefrom  a  premature  knowledge  of  what  the  de- 
signer supposably  wishes  to  conceal  for  the  time  being.  The 
1* 


10  APOLOGY. 

author  could  scarcely  have  been  without  some  presentiment 
of  this  likelihood,  while  striving  to  manipulate  an  artificial 
type  of  character  so  wholly  unnatural  to  his  wholesome, 
straightforward  genius;  and  the  depressing  effect  upon  him- 
self is  plainly  to  be  seen,  not  more  in  furthers  pasmodic  ex- 
cesses of  shade,  than  in  the  falsity  of  his  unequalled  Humor 
to  itself,  in  such  a  mechanical  "  side  light "  as  Mr.  Sapsea. 

It  is  because  his  Adaptation  of  The  Mystery  of  Edwin 
Drood  serves,  in  unavoidable  proportion  to  its  fidelity,  to 
make  prominent  the  artistic  infelicities  of  the  latter,  that  the 
adapter  has  ventured  such  a  preface  as  the  foregoing  to  his 
apology  for  turning  the  serious  work  of  an  illustrious  foreign 
writer  to  ludicrous  native  use. 

As  one  not  without  some  studious  knowledge  of  the  scope 
and  various  approved  methods  of  art  in  Fiction,  and  prac- 
tice in  the  difficulties  of  American  novel-writing,  the  present 
scribe  has  more  than  once  employed  the  sober  print  of 
literary  journalism  to  assert  his  belief,  that  the  notorious 
lack  of  the  higher  order  of  imaginative  writing  in  this  Country 
is  due  rather  to  the  physical,  social,  and  artistic  crudity  of 
the  Country  itself,  than  to  its  deficiency  in  that  order  of 
genius  which  has  given  to  older  lands  their  greater  poets, 
artists,  and  novelists.  Commenting,  not  long  ago,  upon 
Mr.  Disraeli's  "  Lothair,"  as  a  striking  social  and  artistic 
study,  he  wrote  : 

"  The  American  literary  student  has  in  this  elegant  work 
of  fiction  a  most  useful  hint  respecting  the  practicabilities 


APOLOGY.  11 

of  an  American  novel.  It  has  scarcely  any  mechanical 
plot ;  yet  its  interest  as  a  narrative  never  flags  for  an  instant. 
It  abounds  in  dialogue  upon  trite  subjects  ;  yet  that  dialogue 
always  possesses  a  marked  intellectual  value  for  its  evidence 
of  a  high  mental  class-cultivation.  In  short,  '  Lothair '  is 
such  a  novel  as  could  not  be  written  of  a  country  like  ours 
with  the  smallest  chance  of  being  anything  but  drearily  com- 
monplace. We  have  our  mercantile  palaces  on  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, our  gorgeous  assemblies  of  fashion,  our  men  of  score 
millions,  our  expensive  churches  and  proselyting  clergy  ;  but 
they  are  all  of  yesterday,  they  are  without  tradition  or  his- 
tory, and  the  wonders  of  swift  creation  that  they  give  to  fact 
would  furnish  but  prosaic  monstrosities  to  the  graceful  hand 
of  Disraelitish  fiction.  Journalists  who  prate  about  the  lack 
of  first-class  imaginative  writing  here  at  home,  and  pretend 
to  designate  materials  for  the  native  romancer,  commit  a 
great  mistake  in  presuming  that  a  novel  of  society  is  the 
work  offering  choicest  matter  and  opportunity  to  the  coming 
master  of  home  fiction.  Your  figures  and  their  action  in 
the  foreground  will  make  but  a  cheap  photograph,  if  there 
is  no  suggestive  background ;  and  it  is  lack  of  permanent 
romantic  background  for  his  picture  that  places  the  novelist 
of  American  higher  society  in  the  position  either  of  a  didactic 
social  essayist,  or  of  a  satirist  of  the  caprices  of  shopkeeping 
fortune.  In  former  days,  the  South,  with  its  patriarchal  and 
feudal  usages,  offered  a  background  upon  which  our  only 
American  novels  proper  were  drawn.  What  artistic  possi- 


12  APOLOGY. 

bilities  there  still  may  be  in  that  section  are  only  to  be  ascer- 
tained by  future  experiment ;  but  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  the  general  American  field  of  opportunities  for  the 
writer  of  fiction  lies  rather  in  the  picturesquery  of  Western 
adventure,  or  the  dramatic  contrast  of  the  extremes  of  wealth 
and  poverty  in  the  great  cities,  than  in  the  lives  and  abodes 
of  the  native  social  class  superficially  corresponding  with  the 
foreign  social  strata  celebrated  by  '  Lothair.'  The  first  rightly- 
directed  step  toward  effective  novel-writing  in  America  must 
be  inspired  by  a  determination  to  discard  all  existing  foreign 
models  as  thoroughly  impracticable,  and  a  courage  to  treat 
what  there  is  of  the  genuinely  picturesque  and  dramatic  in 
American  life  with  an  originality  of  style  and  method  suited 
especially  to  American  subjects.  Wholesome  strength, 
rather  than  poetical  daintiness,  must  be  the  great  character- 
istic of  the  romancer ;  and  his  characters  must  be  made  to 
think  and  act  and  talk  like  Americans  only." 

To  the  above,  after  quoting  it,  a  literary  publication  of 
high  character  *  replied  : 

"  There  is,  doubtless,  a  large  share  of  truth  in  all  this  ;  but 
we  must  still  hope  that  a  competent  artistic  skill  would  be 
able  to  make  of  our  social  pictures  something  more  than  a 
'  cheap  photograph.'  The  absolute  mastership  of  fictitious 
writing,  as  an  art,  is  the  great  need.  Washington  Irving  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  to  the  Hudson  a  series  of  legends  that  at- 
tach a  classic  interest  to  its  shores,  such  as  no  other  locality 

*  "  Appleton's  Journal." 


APOLOGY.  13 

in  America  possesses ;  Hawthorne  could  give  to  the  rudest 
incidents  of  colonial  life  every  quality  of  picturesque  mellow- 
ness. But  these  men  had  the  superior  artistic  touch,  and 
this  is  a  gift  or  attainment  that  always  seems  to  us  pecu- 
liarly lacking  in  American  literature.  When  the  accom- 
plished master  shall  appear,  we  hope  he  will  show  us  how 
ordinary  American  life  may  be  photographed  in  blending, 
contrasted,  and  vivid  groups,  without  that  rawness  that 
marks  the  ordinary  attempts  to  portray  us." 

An  accomplished  theatrical  critic*  also  attacked  the  prop- 
osition, in  its  implied  bearing  upon  the  drama,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  of  opinion  that  men  in  America  have  the  same  in- 
scrutable hearts,  prone  to  love  and  hate  and  lie  and  vener- 
ate, that  beat  in  the  jungles  of  Africa  or  the  saloons  of  Lon- 
don :  they  are  swayed  by  pretty  much  the  same  vices  and 
animated  by  the  same  virtues ;  swollen  with  vanity  or  col- 
lapsed with  humiliation ;  roaring,  defying,  praying,  suffering, 
achieving,  and  dying  —  everywhere  with  the  same  despera- 
tion or  devoutness.  Our  women,  too,  are  they  not  as  vain, 
as  self-sacrificing,  as  tender,  as  trivial,  as  any  in  Bath  or  Ba- 
den ?  Are  they  not  everywhere  the  same,  if  we  come  to 
look  at  them  narrowly;  with  immortal  souls  under  their 
caprices  and  carmine,  drawn  by  the  same  mysterious  des- 
tiny this  way  and  that  ? 

"  Society,  then,  even  in  America,  is,  first  of  all,  flesh  and 
blood,  with  souls  in  it,  and  plays  its  own  intense  and  multi- 

*  Mr.  A.  C.  Wheeler,  in  the  World  newspaper. 


14  APOLOGY. 

form  comedy  of  life  in  our  homes  and  hovels  with  as  much 
meaning  as  if  it  felt  the  pressure  of  all  the  ages  since  Adam, 
and  were  lifted  occasionally  by  the  promise  of  as  great  a 
hereafter  as  exists  for  communities  whose  art  is  older.  Are 
they  not  the  fit  subjects  for  that  elder  art  which  seeks  the 
remote  and  ideal  beauty  that  is  universal  ?  Or  are  they, 
with  all  their  kinship  of  flesh  and  immortality,  to  be  weighed 
only  for  their  manners  in  this  balance  ?  " 

To  both  of  whom  the  answer,  in  part,  was  :  "Mastery  of 
art  may  enable  the  American  novelist  to  plot  a  symmetrical 
fable,  devise  varied  incidents,  plan  effective  alternations  of 
incidental  light  and  shadow,  and  observe  the  various  other 
mechanical  requisites  of  fabulous  construction  ;  yet,  after  all 
this,  it  is  upon  the  specific  social  genius  of  the  grade  of  life 
to  be  reflected  that  his  own  intellectual  genius  must  depend 
for  the  yielding  of  a  defined  Romantic  interest  to  the  fiction. 
If  that  social  genius  is  incorrigibly  prosaic  and  crude,  with- 
out stability  from  one  day  to  another,  and  involving  no  sin- 
gle permanent  principle  of  class  prestige  and  distinction,  the 
fabulating  genius  can  make  it  romantically  interesting  only 
at  the  expense  of  fidelity  to  nature.  Our  American  higher 

41 

society,  originating  almost  wholly  as  it  does  from  the  tend- 
ency of  fluctuating  wealth  to  spasmodic  sensational  luxury, 
and  not  from  hereditary  privilege  or  testhetical  aspiration,  is 
informed  much  more  by  the  logic  of  trade  and  the  pride  of 
financial  energy  than  by  the  obligations  of  illustrious  ances- 
try and  the  fine  egotism  of  conscious  superiority  in  class 


APOLOGY.  15 

cultivation.  It  is  without  normal  body,  it  has  no  distinctive 
manner,  and  its  saliencies  are  better  calculated  to  surprise 
than  interest.  While  such  characteristics  may  be  republican, 
and  creditable  enough  for  reality,  they  are  inexorable  draw- 
backs to  the  romantic  interest  of  fictitious  presentment ;  and 
no  charm  of  literary  style,  nor  vraisemblant  effort  of  the  ima- 
gination, can  make  them  poetic." 

It  was  after  thus  arguing  the  question  seriously,  and  being 
rather  vexed  at  the  apparent  failure  of  his  critics  to  appre- 
ciate his  exact  meaning  —  they  talking  about  legends,  and 
figures  in  the  foreground,  while  he,  conceding  those,  con- 
tended for  present  social  coloring,  permanent  romantic  back- 
ground, and  an  atmosphere  and  a  middle  distance  to  give  ar- 
tistic body  to  the  picture  —  that  the  present  writer  conceived 
the  idea  of  serio-comically  demonstrating  the  assumed  accu- 
racy of  his  views  by  deliberately  reducing  the  current  work  of 
some  great  foreign  novelist  to  American  equivalents.  Hence 
the  CLOVEN  FOOT. 

In  the  latter,  the  adapter  has  aimed  to  Americanize  his 
original  as  conscientiously  as  possible,  while  imitating,  to 
the  best  of  his  ability,  the  style  and  idiosyncrasies  of  the 
English  author.  Mr.  John  Jasper,  the  English  opium-smoker, 
would,  if  transferred  to  this  country,  be  scarcely  other  than 
Mr.  John  Bumstead,  the  American  clove-eater.  For  the 
ancient  city  of  Cloisterham,  with  its  venerable  Cathedral  and 
Nun's  House,  the  nearest  transatlantic  match,  in  a  majority 
of  respects,  is  the  suburban  Bumsteadville,  with  its  Ritualistic 


16  APOLOGY. 

Church  and  Aims-House.    The  English  "Rosebud's"  equiva- 
i   lent  by  adaptation  is  the  American  "  Flowerpot.  "     Edwin 
\  Drood,  the  not  very  brilliant  young  man  of  London,  would 
be  the  mere  boy  in  New  York,  —  and  so  on  through  all 
the  characters,  scenes,  and  incidents  of  the  Original  and  its 
Adaptation,  as  varied  by  the  social  genius,  usages,  and  char- 
acteristics of  either  country. 

To  give  the  Adaptation  all  possible  romantic  illusion,  an 
illustrated  "Sketch  of  the  Author"  is  also  "adapted"  :  and 
if,  after  this  preliminary  exposition,  and  the  elucidation  of  the 
numerous  foot-notes,  the  intelligent  reader  can  still  see  no 
more  than  an  indifferent  joke  in  the  ensuing  pages,  it  may 
be  as  well  for  him  to  ask  himself  if  he  is  so  very  intelligent, 

after  all  ? 

O.  C.  K. 
1870. 


The  homage  of  our  world  to  thee, 
O  Matchless  Scribe  !  when  thou  wert 

Was  all  that's  loving  in  a  Laugh, 
And  all  that's  tender  in  a  Tear. 


So,  if  with  quiv'ring  lip  we  name 
The  fellow  Mortal  who  Departs, 

A  Smile  shall  call  him  back  again, 
To  live  Immortal  in  our  Hearts. 


SKETCH    OF   THE   ADAPTER. 


IT  is  now  nearly  a  twelfth  of  a  century  since  the  veracious 
Historian  of  the  imperishable  Mackerel  Brigade  first  man- 
oeuvred that  incomparably  strategical  military  organization 
in  public,  and  caused  it  to  illustrate  the  fine  art  of  waging 
heroic  war  upon  a  life-insurance  principle.  Equally  re- 
nowned in  arms  for  its  feats  and  legs,  and  for  being  always 
on  hand  when  any  peculiarly  daring  retrograde  movement 
was  on  foot,  this  limber  martial  body  continually  fell  back 


20  SKETCH  OF  THE  ADAPTER. 

upon  victory  throughout  the  war,  and  has  been  coming  for- 
ward with  hand-organs  ever  since.  Its  complete  History, 
by  the  gentleman  now  adapting  the  literary  struggles  of  Mr. 
E.  Drood  to  American  minds  and  matters,  was  subse- 
quently issued  from  the  press  of  Carleton,  in  more  or  less 
volumes,  and  at  once  attracted  profound  attention  from  the 
author's  creditors.  One  great  American  journal  said  of  it : 
"  We  find  the  paper  upon  which  this  production  is  printed 
of  a  most  amusing  quality."  Another  observed  :  "  The  bind- 
ing of  this  tedious  military  work  is  the  most  humorous  we 
ever  saw.  "  A  third  added  :  "  In  typographical  details,  the 
volumes  now  under  consideration  are  facetious  beyond  com- 
pare." 

The  present  residence  of  the  successful  Historian  is  Be- 
gad's  Hill,  New  Jersey,  and,  if  not  existing  in  Shakspeare's 
time,  it  certainly  looks  old  enough  to  have  been  built  at 
about  that  period.  Its  architecture  is  of  the  no-capital  Co- 
rinthian order;  there  are  mortgages  both  front  and  back, 
and  hot  and  cold  water  at  the  nearest  hotel.  From  the  cen- 
tral front  window,  which  belongs  to  the  author's  library,  in 
which  he  keeps  his  Patent  Office  Reports,  there  is  a  fine 
view  of  the  top  of  the  porch ;  while  from  the  rear  casements 
you  get  a  glimpse  of  blind-shutters  which  won't  open.  It  is 
reported  of  this  fine  old  place,  that  the  present  proprietor 
wished  to  own  it  even  when  a  child ;  never  dreaming  the 
mortgaged  halls  would  yet  be  his  without  a  hope  of  re-sell- 
ing. 


SKETCH  OF  THE  ADAPTER.  21 

Although  fully  thirty  years  of  age,  the  owner  of  Begad' s 
Hill  Place  still  writes  with  a  pen ;  and,  perhaps,  with  a  finer 
thoughtfulness  as  to  not  suffusing  his  fingers  with  ink  than 
in  his  more  youthful  moments  of  composition.  He  is  sound 
and  kind  in  both  single  and  double  harness ;  would  undoubt- 
edly be  good  to  the  Pole  if  he  could  get  there ;  and,  although 
living  many  miles  from  the  city,  walks  into  his  breakfast 
every  morning  in  the  year. 


THE    CLOVEN    FOOT. 


[The  American  Press's  Young  Gentlemen,  when  taking  their  shady  literary 
walks  among  the  Columns  of  Interesting  Matter,  have  been  known  to  remark  — 
with  a  glibness  and  grace,  by  Jove,  greatly  in  excess  of  their  salaries  —  that  the 
reason  why  we  dot? t produce  great  works  of  imagination  in  this  country,  as  they 
do  in  other  countries,  is  because  we  haveift  the  genius,  you  know.  They  think  — 
do  they  ?  —  that  the  bran-new  localities,  post-office  addresses,  and  official  titles, 
characteristic  of  the  United  States  of  America,  are  rife  with  all  the  grand  old 
traditional  suggestions  so  useful  in  helping  along  the  romantic  interest  of  fiction. 
They  think  —  do  they  ?  —  that  if- an  A  merican  writer  could  write  a  Novel  in  the 
ejcact  style  of  Collins,  or  Trollopc,  or  Dickens,  only  laying  its  scenes  and  having 
its  characters  in  this  country,  the  work  would  be  as  romantically  effective  as  one 
by  Collins,  or  Trollope,  or  Dickens  ;  and  that  the  possibly  necessary  incidental 
mention  of  such  native  places  as  Schermerhorn  Street,  Dobtfs  Perry,  or  Chicago, 
wouldn't  disturb  the  nicest  dramatic  illusion  of  the  imaginative  tale.  Very 
well,  then!  All  right!  Just  look  here! — Oh!  A.P's.  Young  Gentlemen,  just 
look  here  —  ] 


CHAPTER   I. 

DAYLIGHT    IN    THE    MORN. 

A  MODERN  American  Ritualistic  Spire  !  *  How  can  the 
modern  American  Ritualistic  Spire  be  here  ?  The  well- 
known  tapering  brown  Spire,  like  a  closed  umbrella  on  end  ! 
How  can  that  be  here?  There  is  no  rusty  rim  of  a  shock- 
ing bad  hat  between  the  eye  and  that  Spire  in  the  real  pros- 

*  In  the  original,  "  an  ancient  English  Cathedral  Tower." 


24  DA  YLIGHT  IN  THE  MORN. 

pect.  What  is  the  rusty  rim  that  now  intervenes,  and  con- 
fuses the  vision  of  at  least  one  eye  ?  It  must  be  an  intoxi- 
cated hat  that  wants  to  see,  too.  It  is  so,  for  ritualistic 
choirs  strike  up,  acolytes  swing  censers  dispensing  the  heavy 
odor  of  punch,  and  the  ritualistic  rector  and  his  gaudily 
robed  assistants  in  alb,  chasuble,  maniple  and  tunicle,  intone 
a  Nux  Vomica  in  gorgeous  procession.  Then  come  twenty 
young  clergymen  in  stoles  and  bivettas,  running  after  twenty 
marriageable  young  ladies  of  the  congregation  who  have 
sent  them  worked  slippers.  Then  followed  ten  thousand 
black  monkies  swarming  all  over  everybody  and  up  and 
down  everything,  chattering  like  fiends.  Still  the  Ritualistic 
Spire  keeps  turning  up  in  impossible  places,  and  still  the 
intervening  rusty  rim  of  a  hat  inexplicably  clouds  one  eye. 
There  dawns  a  sensation  as  of  writhing  grim  figures  of 
snakes  in  one's  boots,  and  the  intervening  rusty  rim  of  the 
hat  that  was  not  in  the  original  prospect  takes  a  snake-like 
—  but  stay  !  Is  this  the  rim  of  my  own  hat  tumbled  all 
awry  ?  I'  mushbe !  A  few  reflective  moments,  not  un- 
relieved by  hiccups,  mush  be  d'voted  to  co-shid-ERATiON  of 
th'  posh'bil'ty. 

Nodding  excessively  to  himself  with  unspeakable  gravity, 
the  gentleman  whose  diluted  mind  has  thus  played  the 
Dickens  with  him,  slowly  arises  to  an  upright  position  by  a 
series  of  complicated  manoeuvres  with  both  hands  and  feet ; 
and,  having  carefully  balanced  himself  on  one  leg,  and  shak- 
ing his  aggressive  old  hat  still  further  down  over  his  left 


DA  YLIGHT  IN  THE  MORN.  25 

eye,  proceeds  to  take  a  cloudy  view  of  his  surroundings., 
He  is  in  a  room  giving  on  one  side  to  a  bar,  and  on  the 
other  side  to  a  pair  of  glass  doors  and  a  window,  through  the 
broken  panes  of  which  various  musty  cloth  substitutes  for 
glass  ejaculate  toward  the  outer  Mulberry  Street.  Tilted 
back  in  chairs  against  the  wall,  in  various  attitudes  of  dis- 
location of  the  spine  and  compound  fracture  of  the  neck, 
are  an  Alderman  of  the  ward,  an  Assistant-Assessor,  and  the 
lady  who  keeps  the  hotel.*  The  first  two  are  shapeless  with 
a  slumber  defying  every  law  of  comfortable  anatomy  ;  the 
last  is  dreamily  attempting  to  light  a  stumpy  pipe  with  the 
wrong  end  of  a  match,  and  shedding  tears,  in  the  dim  morn- 
ing ghastliness,  at  her  repeated  failures. 

"  Thiy  another,"  says  this  woman,  rather  thickly,  to  the 
gentleman  balanced  on  one  leg,  who  is  gazing  at  her,  and 
winking  very  much.  "  Have  another,  wid  some  bitters." 

He  straightens  himself  extremely,  to  an  imminent  peril  of 
falling  over  backward,  sways  slightly  to  and  fro,  and  becomes 
as  severe  in  expression  of  countenance  as  his  one  uncovered 
eye  will  allow. 

The  woman  falls  back  in  her  chair  again  asleep,  and  he, 
walking  with  one  shoulder  depressed,  and  a  species  of  side- 
wise,  running  gait,  approaches  and  poises  himself  over  her. 

"What  vision  can  she  have?"  the  man  muses,  with  his 
hat  now  fully  upon  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  He  smiles  un- 
expectedly ;  as  suddenly  frowns  with  great  intensity ;  and 
-  s  • 

*  In  the  original,  a  low  haunt  of  opium-smokers,  in  London. 


26  DA  YLIGHT  IN  THE  MORN". 

involuntarily  walks  backward  against  the  sleeping  Alderman. 
Him  he  abstractedly  sits  down  upon,  and  then  listens  in- 
tently for  any  casual  remark  he  may  make.  But  one  word 
comes —  "  Wairzernat'chal'zationc'tif  kits." 

"  Unintelligent !  "  mutters  the  man,  wearily  ;  and,  rising 
dejectedly  from  the  Alderman,  lurches,  with  a  crash,  upon 
the  Assistant-Assessor.  Him  he  shakes  fiercely  for  being  so 
bony  to  fall  on,  and  then  hearkens  for  a  suitable  apology. 

"  Warzwaz-yourwifesincome-lash'  — lash' -year  ?  " 

A  thoughtful  pause,  partaking  of  a  doze. 

"  Unintelligent !  " 

Complicatedly  arising  from  the  Assessor,  with  his  hat  now 
almost  hanging  by  an  ear,  the  gentleman,  after  various  futile 
but  ingenious  efforts  to  face  toward  the  door  by  turning  his 
head  alone  that  way,  finally  succeeds  by  walking  in  a  circle 
until  the  door  is  before  him.  Then,  with  his  whole  counte- 
nance charged  with  almost  scowling  intensity  of  purpose, 
though  finding  it  difficult  to  keep  his  eyes  very  far  open,  he 
balances  himself  with  the  utmost  care,  throws  his  shoulders 
back,  steps  out  daringly,  and  goes  off  at  an  acute  slant 
toward  the  Alderman  again.  Recovering  himself  by  a 
tremendous  effort  of  will  and  a  few  wild  backward  move- 
ments, he  steps  out  jauntily  once  more,  and  cannot  stop 
himself  until  he  has  gone  twice  around  a  chair  on  his  ex- 
treme left  and  reached  almost  exactly  the  point  from  which 
he  started  the  first  time.  He  pauses,  panting,  but  with  the 
scowl  of  determination  still  more  intense,  and  concentrated 


DA  YLIGHT  IN  THE  MORN.  27 

chiefly  in  his  right  eye.  Very  cautiously  extending  his 
dexter  hand,  that  he  may  not  destroy  the  nicety  of  his  per- 
pendicular balance,  he  points  with  a  ringer  at  the  knob  of 
the  door,  and  suffers  his  stronger  eye  to  fasten  firmly  upon 
the  same  object.  A  moment's  balancing,  to  make  sure,  and 
then,  in  three  irresistible,  rushing  strides,  he  goes  through 
the  glass  doors  with  a  burst,  without  stopping  to  turn  the 
latch,  strikes  an  ash-box  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  re- 
bounds to  a  lamp-post,  and  then,  with  the  irresistible  rush 
still  on  him,  describes  a  hasty  wavy  line,  marked  by  irregular 
heel-strokes,  up  the  street. 

That  same  afternoon,  the  modern  American  Ritualistic 
Spire  rises  in  duplicate  illusion  before  the  multiplying  vision 
of  a  traveller  recently  off  the  ferry-boat,  who,  as  though  not 
satisfied  with  the  length  of  his  journey,  makes  frequent  and 
unexpected  trials  of  its  width.  The  bells  are  ringing  for 
vesper  service ;  and,  having  fairly  made  the  right  door  at 
last,  after  repeatedly  shooting  past  and  falling  short  of  it,  he 
reaches  his  place  in  the  choir  and  performs  voluntaries  and 
involuntaries  upon  the  organ,  in  a  manner  not  distinguishable 
from  almost  any  fashionable  church-music  of  the  period. 


28    A  DEAN,  AND  A  CHAP  OR  TWO  ALSO. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  DEAN,  AND  A  CHAP  OR  TWO  ALSO. 

WHOSOEVER  has  noticed  a  party  of  those  sedate  and  Ger- 

* 

manesquely  philosophical  animals,  the  pigs,  scrambling  pre- 
cipitately under  a  gate  from  out  a  cabbage-patch  toward 
nightfall,  may,  perhaps,  have  observed,  that,  immediately 
upon  emerging  from  the  sacred  vegetable  preserve,  a  couple 
of  the  more  elderly  and  designing  of  them  assumed  a  sudden 
air  of  abstracted  musing,  and  reduced  their  progress  to  a 
most  dignified  and  leisurely  walk,  as  though  to  convince  the 
human  beholder  that  their  recent  proximity  to  the  cabbages 
had  been  but  the  trivial  accident  of  a  meditative  stroll. 

Similarly,  service  in  the  church  being  over,  and  divers  per- 
sons of  piggish  solemnity  of  aspect  dispersing,  two  of  the 
latter  detach  themselves  from  the  rest,  and  try  an  easy  lounge 
around  toward  a  side  door  of  the  building,  as  though  willing 
to  be  taken  by  the  outer  world  for  a  couple  of  unimpeach- 
able low-church  gentlemen,  who  merely  happened  to  be  in 
that  neighborhood  at  that  hour  for  an  airing. 

The  day  and  year  are  waning,  and  the  setting  sun  casts  a 
ruddy  but  not  warming  light  upon  two  figures  under  the 
£rch  of  the  side  door  ;  while  one  of  these  figures  locks  the 


A   DEAN,  AND  A    CHAP  OR    TWO  ALSO.  29 

door,  the  other,  who  seems  to  have  a  music-book  under  his 
•arm,  comes  out,  with  a  strange,  screwy  motion,  as  though 
through  an  opening  much  too  narrow  for  him,  and,  having 
poised  a  moment  to  nervously  pull  some  imaginary  object 
from  his  right  boot  and  hurl  it  madly  from  him,  goes  unex- 
pectedly off  with  the  precipitancy  and  equilibriously  con- 
centric manner  of  a  gentleman  in  his  first  private  essay  on  a 
tight-rope. 

"Was  that  Mr.  Bumstead,  Smythe  ?"* 

"  It  wasn't  anybody  else,  your  Reverence." 

"  Say  '  his  identity  with  the  person  mentioned  scarcely 
comes  within  the  legitimate  domain  of  doubt,'  Smythe  —  to 
Father  Dean,"  the  younger  of  the  piggish  persons  softly  inter- 
poses. 

"  Is  Mr.  Bumstead  unwell,  Smythe  ?  " 

"He's  pretty  bad  to-night." 

"Say  'incipient  cerebral  effusion  marks  him  especially 
for  its  prey  at  this  vesper  hour,'  Smythe  —  to  Father  Dean," 
again  softly  interposes  Mr.  Simpson,  the  Gospeller,  f 

"  Mr.  Simpson,"  pursues  Father  Dean,J  whose  name  has 
been  modified,  by  various  theological  stages,  from  its  original 
form  of  Paudean,  to  Pere  Dean  —  Father  Dean,  "I  regret 
to  hear  that  Mr.  Bumstead  is  so  delicate  in  health;  you 


*  In  the  original,   Mr.  John   Jasper,  Chorister  of  the  Cathedral ;   and    Tojie,  a 
Verger. 

t  In  the  original,  Mr.  Crisparkle,  Minor  Canon. 
t  In  the  original,  "  the  Dean," 


30  A    DEAN,  AND  A    CHAP  OR    TWO  ALSO. 

may  stop  at  his  boarding-house  on  your  way  home,  and  ask 
him  how  he  is,  with  my  compliments.  Pax  vobiscum" 

Shining  so  with  a  sense  of  his  own  benignity  that  the 
retiring  sun  gives  up  all  rivalry  at  once  and  instantly  sets  in 
despair,  Father  Dean  departs  to  his  dinner,  and  Mr.  Simp- 
son, the  Gospeller,  betakes  himself  cheerily  to  the  second- 
floor-back,  where  Mr.  Bumstead  lives.  Mr.  Bumstead  is  a 
shady-looking  man  of  about  six-and-twenty,  with  black  hair 
and  whiskers  of  the  window-brush  school,  and  a  face  remind- 
ing you  of  the  Bourbons.  As,  although  lighting  his  lamp,  he 
has,  abstractedly,  almost  covered  it  with  his  hat,  his  room  is 
but  imperfectly  illuminated,  and  you  can  just  detect  the 
accordeon  on  the  window-sill,  and,  above  the  mantel,  an 
unfinished  sketch  of  a  school-girl.  (There  is  no  artistic 
merit  in  this  picture;  in  which,  indeed,  a  simple  triangle 
on  end  represents  the  waist,  another  and  slightly  larger 
triangle  the  skirts,  and  straight-lines  with  rake-like  termina- 
tions the  arms  and  hands.) 

"  Called  to  ask  how  you  are,  and  offer  Father  Dean's 
compliments,"  says  the  Gospeller. 

"  I'm  allright,  shir  ! "  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  rising  from  the 
rug  where  he  has  been  temporarily  reposing,  and  dropping 
his  umbrella.  He  speaks  almost  with  ferocity. 

"  You  are  awaiting  your  nephew,  Edwin  Drood  ?  " 

"  Yeshir."  As  he  answers,  Mr.  Bumstead  leans  languidly 
far  across  the  table,  and  seems  vaguely  amazed  at  the  aspect 
of  the  lamp  with  his  hat  upon  it. 


A  DEAN,  AND  A    CHAP  OR    TWO  ALSO.          31 

Mr.  Simpson  retires  softly,  stops  to  greet  some  one  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  and,  in  another  moment,  a  young  man 
fourteen  years  old  enters  the  room  with  his  carpet-bag. 

"  My  dear  boys  !     My  dear  Edwins  !" 

Thus  speaking,  Mr.  Bumstead  sidles  eagerly  at  the  new- 
comer, with  open  arms,  and,  in  falling  upon  his  neck,  does 
so  too  heavily,  and  bears  him  with  a  crash  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  see  here  !  this  is  played  out,  you  know,"  ejaculates 
the  nephew,  almost  suffocated  with  travelling- shawl  and 
Bumstead. 

Mr.  Bumstead  rises  from  him  slowly  and  with  dignity. 

"  Excuse  me,  dear  Edwin ;  I  thought  there  were  two  of 
you." 

Edwin  Drood  regains  his  feet  with  alacrity  and  casts  aside 
his  shawl. 

"  Whatever  you  thought,  uncle,  I  am  still  a  single  man, 
although  your  way  of  coming  down  on  a  chap  was  enough 
to  make  me  beside  myself.  Any  grub,  Jack  ?  " 

With  a  check  upon  his  enthusiasm  and  a  sudden  gloom  of 
expression  amounting  almost  to  a  squint,  Mr.  Bumstead 
motions  with  his  whole  right  side  toward  an  adjacent  room 
in  which  a  table  is  spread,  and  leads  the  way  thither  in  a 
half-circle. 

"Ah,  this  is  prime  !"  cries  the  young  fellow,  rubbing  his 
hands ;  the  while  he  realizes  that  Mr.  Bumstead' s  squint  is 
an  attempt  to  include  both  himself  and  the  picture  over  the 


32          A  DEAN,  AND  A    CHAP  OR    TWO  ALSO. 

mantel  in  the  next  room  in  one  incredibly  complicated 
look. 

Not  much  is  said  during  dinner,  as  the  strength  of  the 
boarding-house  butter  requires  all  the  nephew's  energies  for 
single  combat  with  it,  and  the  uncle  is  so  absorbed  in  a 
dreamy  effort  to  make  a  salad  with  his  hash  and  all  the  con- 
tents of  the  castor,  that  he  can  attend  to  nothing  else.  At 
length  the  cloth  is  drawn,  Edwin  produces  some  peanuts 
from  his  pocket,  and  passes  some  to  Mr.  Bumstead,  and  the 
latter,  with  a  wet  towel  pinned  about  his  head,  drinks  a  great 
deal  of  water. 

"This  is  Sissy's  birthday,  you  know,  Jack,"  says  the 
nephew,  with  a  squint  through  the  door  and  around  the 
corner  of  the  adjoining  apartment  toward  the  crude  picture 
over  the  mantel,  "  and,  if  our  respective  respected  parents 
hadn't  bound  us  by  will  to  marry,  I'd  be  mad  after  her." 

Crack.     On  Edwin  Drood's  part. 

Hie.     On  Mr.  Bumstead's  part. 

"Nobody's  dictated  a  marriage  for  you,  Jack.  You  can 
choose  for  yourself.  Life  for  you  is  still  fraught  with  free- 
dom's intoxicating  — " 

Mr.  Bumstead  has  suddenly  become  very  pale,  and  per- 
spires heavily  on  the  forehead. 

"  Good  Heavens,  Jack  !   I  haven't  hurt  your  feelings  ?  " 

Mr.  Bumstead  makes  a  feeble  pass  at  him  with  the  water- 
decanter,  and  smiles  in  a  very  ghastly  manner. 


A  DEAN,  AND  A    CHAP   OR    TWO  ALSO.  33 

*'  Lem  me  be  a  mis' able  warning  to  you,  Edwin,"  says  Mr. 
Bumstead,  shedding  tears. 

The  scared  face  of  the  younger  recalls  him  to  himself,  and 
he  adds : 

"Don't  mind  me,  my  dear  boys.  It's  cloves;  you  may 
notice  them  on  my  breath.  I  take  them  for  my  nerv'shness." 
Here  he  rises  in  a  series  of  trembles  to  his  feet,  and  balances, 
still  very  pale,  on  one  leg. 

"  You  want  cheering  up,"  says  Edwin  Drood,  kindly. 

"  Yesh  —  cheering  up.  Let's  go  and  walk  in  the  grave- 
yard," says  Mr.  Bumstead. 

"  By  all  means.  You  won't  mind  my  slipping  out  for  half 
a  minute  to  the  Alms  House*  to  leave  a  few  gum-drops  for 
Sissy?  Rather  spoony,  Jack." 

Mr.  Bumstead  almost  loses  his  balance  in  an  imprudent 
attempt  to  wink  archly ;  and  says,"Norring-half-sh'-shweet-'n- 
life."  He  is  very  thick  with  Edwin  Drood,  for  he  loves 
him. 

"Well,  let's  skedaddle,  then." 

Mr.  Bumstead  very  carefully  poises  himself  on  both  feet, 
puts  on  his  hat  over  the  wet  towel,  gives  a  sudden  horrified 
glance  downward  toward  one  of  his  boots,  and  leaps  franti- 
cally over  an  object. 

"  Why,  that  was  only  my  cane,"  says  Edwin. 

Mr.'  Bumstead  breathes  hard,  and  leans  heavily  on  his 
nephew  as  they  go  out  together. 

*  In  the  original.  "  the  Nv>fs  House." 

2* 


34:  THE  ALMS-HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   ALMS-HOUSE. 

FOR  the  purpose  of  preventing  an  inconvenient  rush  of 
literary  tuft-hunters  and  sight-seers  thither  next  summer,  a 
fictitious  name  must  be  bestowed  upon  the  town  of  the  Rit- 
ualistic church.  Let  it  stand  in  these  pages  as  Bumstead- 
ville.*  Possibly  it  was  not  known  to  the  Romans,  the 
Saxons,  nor  the  Normans  by  that  name,  if  by  any  name  at 
all ;  but  a  name  more  or  less  weird  and  full  of  damp  syllables 
can  be  of  little  monent  to  a  place  not  owned  by  any  adver- 
tising Suburban-Residence  benefactors. 

A  disagreeable  and  healthy  suburb,  Bumsteadville,  with  a 
strange  odor  of  dried  bones  from  its  ancient  pauper  burial- 
ground,  and  many  quaint  old  ruins  in  the  shapes  of  elderly 
men  engaged  as  contributors  to  the  monthly  magazines  of 
the  day.  Antiquity  pervades  Bumsteadville ;  nothing  is 
new ;  the  very  Rye  is  old ;  also  the  Jamaica,  Santa  Cruz, 
and  a  number  of  the  native  maids.  A  drowsy  place,  with 
all  its  changes  lying  far  behind  it;  or,  at  least,  the  sun- 
browned  mendicants  passing  through  say  they  never  saw  a 
place  offering  so  little  present  change. 

*  In  the  original,  Cloisterham. 


THE  ALMS-HOUSE.  35 

In  the  midst  of  Bumsteadville  stands  the  Aims-House  ;  a 
building  of  an  antic  order  of  architecture  ;  still  known  by  its 
original  title  to  the  paynobility  and  indigentry  of  the  sur- 
rounding country,  several  of  whose  ancestors  abode  there  in 
the  days  before  voting  was  a  certain  livelihood ;  although 
now  bearing  a  door-plate  inscribed,  "  Macassar  Female 
College,  Miss  Carowthers."*  Whether  any  of  the  country 
editors,  projectors  of  American  Comic  papers,  and  other 
immates  of  the  edifice  in  times  of  yore,  ever  come  back  in 
spirit  to  be  astonished  by  the  manner  in  which  modern  ser- 
ious and  humorous  print  can  be  made  productive  of  anything 
but  penury  by  publishing  True  Stories  of  Lord  Byron  and 
the  autobiographies  of  detached  wives,  may  be  of  interest  to 
philosophers,  but  is  of  no  account  to  Miss  Carowthers. 
Every  day,  during  school-hours,  does  Miss  Carowthers,  in 
spectacles  and  high-necked  alpaca,  preside  over  her  Young 
Ladies  of  Fashion,  with  an  austerity  and  elderliness  before 
which  every  mental  image  of  Man,  even  as  the  most  poetical 
of  abstractions,  withers  and  dies.  Every  night,  after  the 
young  ladies  have  retired,  does  Miss  Carowthers  put  on  a 
freshening  aspect,  don  a  more  youthful  low-necked  dress — 

As  though  a  rose 
Should  leave  its  clothes 
And  be  a  bud  again,  — 

and  become  a  sprightlier  Miss  Carowthers.     Every  night  at 
the  same  hour,  does  Miss  Carowthers  discuss  with  her  First 

*  In  the  original,  Miss  Twinkleton. 


36  THE  ALMS-HOUSE. 

Assistant,  Mrs.  Pillsbury,  *  the  Inalienable  Rights  of 
Women ;  always  making  certain  casual  reference  to  a  gen- 
tleman in  the  dim  past,  whom  she  was  obliged  to  sue  for 
breach  of  promise,  and  to  whom,  for  that  reason,  Miss  Ca- 
rowthers  airily  refers,  with  a  toleration  bred  of  the  lapse  of 
time,  as,  "  Breachy  Mr.  Blodgett." 

The  pet  pupil  of  the  Aims-House  is  Flora  Potts,f  of 
course  called  the  Flowerpot ;  for  whom  a  husband  has  been 
chosen  by  the  will  and  beques*  of  her  departed  papa,  and  at 
whom  none  of  the  other  Macassar  young  ladies  can  look 
without  wondering  how  it  must  feel.  On  the  afternoon  after 
the  day  of  the  dinner  at  the  boarding-house,  the  Macassar 
front-door  bell  rings,  and  Mr.  Edwin  Drood  is  announced  as 
waiting  to  see  Miss  Flora.  Having  first  rubbed  her  lips  and 
cheeks,  alternately,  with  her  fingers,  to  make  them  red; 
held  her  hands  above  her  head  to  turn  back  the  circulation 
and  make  them  white  ;  and  added  a  little  lead-pencilling  to 
her  eyebrows  to  make  them  black  ;  the  Flowerpot  trips  in- 
nocently down  to  the  parlor,  and  stops  short  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  visitor  in  a  curious  sort  of  angular  deflection 
from  die  perpendicular. 

"  O,  you  absurd  creature  ! "  she  says,  placing  a  finger  in 
her  mouth  and  slightly  wriggling  at  him.  "To  go  and  have 
to  be  married  to  me  whether  we  want  to  or  not!  It's  per- 
fectly disgusting." 

*  In  the  original,  Mrs.  Tisher. 
t  In  the  original,  Rosa  Bud,  "of  course  called  Rosebud." 


THE  ALMS-HOUSE.  37 

"  Our  parents  did  rather  come  a  little  load  on  us,"  says 
Edwin  Drood,  not  rendered  enthusiastic  by  his  reception. 

"  Can't  we  get  a  habeas  corpus,  or  some  other  ridiculous 
thing,  and  ask  some  perfectly  absurd  Judge  to  serve  an  in- 
junction on  somebody  ?  "  she  asks,  with  pretty  earnestness. 
"Don't,  Eddy  — do-o-n't." 

"  Don't  what,  Flora  ?  " 

"  Don't  try  to  kiss  me,  please." 

"Why  not,  Flora?" 

"  Because  I'm  enamelled." 

"  Well,  I  do  think,"  says  Edwin  Drood,  "  that  you  put  on 
the  Grecian  Bend  rather  heavily  with  me.  Perhaps  I'd 
better  go." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  so  exquisitely  hateful,  Eddy.  I  got  the 
gum-drops  last  night,  and  they  were  perfectly  splendid." 

"  Well,  that's  a  confort,  at  any  rate,"  says  her  affianced, 
dimly  conscious  of  a  dawning  civility  in  her  last  remark.  "  If 
it's  really  possible  for  you  to  walk  on  those  high  heels  of 
yours,  Flora,  let's  try  a  promenade  out-doors." 

Here  Miss  Carowthers  glides  into  the  room  to  look  for 
her  scissors,  is  reminded  by  the  scene  before  her  of  Breachy 
Mr.  Blodgett ;  whispers,  "Don't  trifle  with  her  young  affec- 
tions, Mr.  Drood,  unless  you  want  to  be  sued,  besides  being 
interviewed  by  all  the  papers  ; "  and  glides  out  again  with  a 
sigh. 

Flora  then  puts  upon  her  head  a  fig-leaf  trimmed  with  lace 
and  ribbon,  and  gets  her  hoop  and  stick  from  behind  the 


38  THE  ALMS-HOUSE. 

hall-door.  Edwin  Drood  takes  from  one  of  his  pockets  an 
india-rubber  ball,  to  practice  fly-catches  with  as  he  walks  ; 
and  driving  the  hoop  and  throwing  and  catching  the  ball,  the 
two  go  down  the  ancient  turnpike  of  Bumsteadville  together. 

"  Oh,  please,  Eddy,  scrape  yourself  close  to  the  fences, 
so  that  the  girls  can't  see  you  out  of  the  windows,"  pleads 
Flora.  "  It's  so  utterjy  absurd  to  be  walking  with  one  that 
one's  got  to  marry  whether  one  likes  it  or  not;  and  you  do 
look  so  perfectly  ridiculous  in  that  short  coat,  and  all  your 
other  things  so  tight." 

He  gloomily  scrapes  against  the  fences,  dropping  his  ball 
and  catching  it  on  the  rebound  at  every  step.  "Which  way 
shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  Up  by  the  store,  Eddy,  dear." 

They  go  to  the  all-sorts  country  store  in  question,  where 
Edwin  Drood  buys  her  some  sassafras  bull's-eye  candy,  and 
then  they  turn  toward  home  again. 

"Now be  a  good-tempered  Eddy,"  she  says,  trundling  her 
hoop  beside  him,  "and  pretend  that  you  aren't  going  to  be 
my  husband." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  says,  catching  the  ball  almost 
spitefully. 

"Then  you're  going  to  have  somebody  else?" 

"  You  make  my  head  ache,  so  you  do,"  whimpers  Edwin 
Drood.  "  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody  at  all ! " 

She  tickles  him  under  the  arm  with  her  hoop-stick,  and 
turns  eyes  that  are  all  serious  upon  his. 


THE  ALMS-HOUSE.  39 

"  I  wish,  Eddy,  that  we  could  be  perfectly  absurd  friends 
to  each  other,  instead  of  utterly  ridiculous  engaged  people. 
It's  exquisitely  awful,  you  know,  to  have  a  husband  picked 
out  for  you  by  dead  folks,  and  I'm  so  sick  about  it  some- 
times that  I  hardly  have  the  heart  to  fix  my  back-hair.  Let 
each  of  us  forbear,  and  stop  teazing  the  other." 

Greatly  pleased  by  this  perfectly  intelligent  and  forgiving 
arrangement,  Edwin  Drood  says  :  "  You're  right,  Flora. 
Teazing  is  played  out ; "  and  drives  his  ball  into  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  bounces. 

They  have  arrived  near  the  Ritualistic  church,  through  the 
windows  of  which  come  the  organ-notes  of  one  practising 
within.  Something  familiar  in  the  grand  air  rolling  out  to 
them  causes  Edwin  Drood  to  repeat,  abstractedly,  "  I  feel  — 
I  feel  — I  feel  — " 

Flora,  simultaneously  affected  in  the  same  way,  unconsci- 
ously murmurs, —  "  I  feel  like  a  morning  star." 

They  then  join  hands,  under  the  same  irresistible  spell, 
and  take  dancing  steps,  humming,  in  unison,  "  Shoo,  fly ! 
don't  bodder  me." 

"That's  Jack  Bumstead's  playing,"  whispers  Edwin 
Drood ;  "  and  he  must  be  breathing  this  way,  too,  for  I  can 
smell  the  cloves." 

"  O,  take  me  home,"  cries  Flora,  suddenly  throwing  her 
hoop  over  the  young  man's  neck,  and  dragging  him  violently 
after  her.  "  I  think  cloves  are  perfectly  disgusting." 


40  THE  ALMS-HOUSE. 

At  the  door  of  the  Aims-House  the  pretty  Flowerpot  blows 
a  kiss  to  Edwin,  and  goes  in.  He  makes  one  trial  of  his 
ball  against  the  door,  and  goes  off.  She  is  an  in-fant,  he  is 
an  off-'un. 


MR.  SWEENEY.  41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MR.    SWEENEY. 

ACCEPTING  the  New  American  Cyclopaedia  as  a  fair  stand- 
ard of  stupidity  —  although  the  prejudice,  perhaps,  may 
arise  rather  from  the  irascibility  of  the  few  using  it  as  a  ref- 
erence, than  from  the  calm  judgment  of  the  many  employ- 
ing it  to  fill-out  a  showy  book-case  —  then  the  newest  and 
most  American  Cyclopaedist  in  Bumsteadville  is  Judge 
Sweeney.* 

It  is  Judge  Sweeney's  pleasure  to  found  himself  upon  Father 
Dean,  whom  he  greatly  resembles  in  the  intellectual  details 
of  much  forehead,  stomach,  and  shirt-collar.  When  upon 
the  bench  in  the  city,  even,  granting  an  injunction  in  favor 
of  some  railroad  company  in  which  he  owns  a  little  stock,  he 
frequently  intones  his  accompanying  remarks  with  an  eccle- 
siastical solemnity  eminently  calculated  to  suppress  every 
possible  tendency  to  levity  in  the  assembled  lawyers ;  and 
his  discharge  from  arrest  of  any  foreign  gentleman  brought 


*  Mr.  Sapsea  the  original  of  this  character  in  Mr.  Dickens'  romance,  is  an  auc- 
tioneer. The  present  Adapter  can  think  of  no  nearer  American  equivalent,  in  the  way 
of  a  person  at  once  resident  in  a  suburb  and  who  sells  to  the  highest  bidder,  than  a 
supposable  member  of  the  New  York  judiciary. 


42  MR.  SWEENEY. 

before  him  for  illegal  voting,  has  often  been  found  strikingly 
similar  in  sound  to  a  pastoral  Benediction. 

That  Judge  Sweeney  has  many  admirers,  is  proved  by  the 
immense  local  majority  electing  him  to  judicial  eninence  ; 
and  that  the  admiration  is  mutual  is  likewise  proved  by  his 
subsequent  appreciative  dismissal  of  certain  frivolous  com- 
plaints against  a  majority  of  that  majority  for  trifling  misap- 
prehensions of  the  Registry  law.  He  is  a  portly,  double- 
chinned  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  moral  cough,  eye-glasses 
making  even  his  red  nose  seem  ministerial,  and  little  gold 
ballot-boxes,  locomotives,  and  five-dollar  pieces,  hanging  as 
"  charms"  from  the  chain  of  his  Repeater. 

Judge  Sweeney's  villa  is  on  the  turnpike,  opposite  the 
Aims-House,  with  doors  and  shutters  giving  in  whichever 
direction  they  are  opened ;  and  he  is  sitting  near  a  table, 
with  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hands,  and  a  bowl  of  warm 
lemon  tea  before  him,  when  his  servant-girl  announces  "  Mr. 
Bumstead." 

"  Happy  to  see  you,  sir,  in  my  house,  for  the  first  time," 
is  Judge  Sweeney's  hospitable  greeting. 

"  You  honor  me,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  whose  eyes  are 
set,  as  though  he  were  in  some  kind  of  a  fit,  and  who  shakes 
hands  excessively.  "  You  are  a  good  man,  sir.  How  do 
you  do,  sir  ?  Shake  hands  again,  sir.  I  am  very  well,  sir,  I 
thank  you.  Your  hand,  sir.  I'll  stand  by  you,  sir  —  though 
I  never  spoke  f  you  b'fore  in  my  life.  Let  us  shake  hands, 
sir." 


MR.  SWEENEY.  43 

But  instead  of  waiting  for  this  last  shake,  Mr.  Bum  stead 
abruptly  turns  away  to  the  nearest  chair,  deposits  his  hat  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  seat  with  great  care,  and  recklessly 
sits  down  upon  it. 

The  lemon  tea  in  the  bowl  upon  the  table  is  a  fruity  com- 
pound, consisting  of  two  very  thin  slices  of  lemon,  which  are 
maintained  in  horizontal  positions,  for  the  free  action  of  the 
air  upon  their  upper  surfaces,  by  a  pint  of  whiskey  procured 
for  that  purpose.  About  half  a  pint  of  hot  water  has  been 
added  to  help  soften  the  rind  of  the  lemon,  and  a  portion  of 
sugar  to  correct  its  acidity. 

With  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  this  tropical  preserve, 
Judge  Sweeney  says  :  "  You  have  a  reputation,  sir,  as  a  man 
of  taste.  Try  some  lemon  tea." 

Energetically,  if  not  frantically,  his  guest  holds  out  a  tum- 
bler to  be  filled,  immediately  after  which  he  insists  upon 
shaking  hands  again.  "  You're  a  man  of  insight,  sir,"  he 
says,  working  Judge  Sweeney  back  and  forth  in  his  chair. 
"  I  am  a  man  of  taste,  sir,  and  you  know  the  world,  sir." 

"  The  World?  "  says  Judge  Sweeney,  complacently.  "  If 
you  mean  the  religious  female  daily  paper  of  that  name,  I 
certainly  do  know  it.  I  used  to  take  it  for  my  late  wife 
when  she  was  trying  to  learn  Latin." 

"  I  mean  the  terrestrial  globe,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Bunastead, 
irritably.  "  The  great  spherical  foundation,  sir,  upon  which 
Boston  has  since  been  built." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  says  Judge  Sweeney,  genially.     "  I  believe, 


44  MR.  SWEENEY. 

though,  that  I  know  that  world,  also,  pretty  well ;  for,  if  I 
have  not  exactly  been  to  foreign  countries,  foreign  countries 
have  come  to  me.  They  have  come  to  me  on  —  hem  !  — 
business,  and  I  have  improved  my  opportunities.  A  man 
comes  to  me  from  a  vessel  and  I  say  '  Cork,'  and  give  him 
Naturalization  Certificates  for  himself  and  his  friends.  An- 
other comes,  and  I  say  '  Dublin  ; '  another,  and  I  say  '  Bel- 
fast.' If  I  want  to  travel  still  further,  I  take  them  all  to- 
gether and  say  '  the  Polls.'  " 

"You'll  do  to  travel,  sir,"  responds  Mr.  Bumstead,  ab- 
stractedly helping  himself  to  some  more  lemon  tea;  "  but  I 
thought  we  were  to  talk  about  the  late  Mrs.  Sweeney." 

"  We  were,  sir,"  says  Judge  Sweeney,  abstractedly  remov- 
ing the  bowl  to  a  sideboard  on  his  farther  side.  "  My  late 
wife,  young  man,  as  you  may  be  aware,  was  a  Miss  Hag- 
gerty,  and  was  imbued  with  homage  to  Shape.  It  was  rum- 
ored, sir,  that  she  admired  me  for  my  Manly  Shape.  When 
I  offered  to  make  her  my  bride,  the  only  words  she  could 
articulate  were,  "  O,  my !  I? "  —  meaning  that  she  could 
scarcely  believe  that  I  really  meant  her.  After  which  she 
fell  into  strong  hysterics.  We  were  married,  despite  certain 
objections  on  the  score  of  temperance  by  that  corrupt  Radi- 
cal, her  father.  From  looking  up  to  me  too  much  she  con- 
tracted! an  affection  of  the  spine,  and  died  about  nine  months 
ago.  Now,  sir,  be  good  enough  to  run  your  eye  over  this 
Epitaph,  which  I  have  composed  for  the  monument  row 
erecting  to  her  memory." 


MR.  SWEENEY.  45 

Mr.  Bumstead,  rousing  from  a  doze  for  the  purpose,  fixes 
glassy  eyes  upon  the  slip  of  paper  held  out  to  him,  and  reads 
as  follows  : 

MARY  ANN, 

Unlitigating  and  Unliterary  Wife  of 

HIS  HONOR,  JUDGE  SWEENEY. 

In  the  darkest  hours  of 

Her  Husband's  fortunes 

She  was  never  once  tempted  to  Write  for 

THE    TRIBUNE,    OR    THE    INDEPENDENT  ;  * 

Nor  did  even  a  disappointment  about  a 

new  bonnet  ever  induce  her  to 

threaten  her  husband  with 
AN  INDIANA  DIVORCE. 

STRANGER,  PAUSE, 
and  consider  if  thou  canst  say 
-     the  same  about 
THINE  OWN  WIFE  ! 
'    4.  if  not, 

WITH  A  RUSH  RETIRE,  t 

Mr.  Bumstead,  affected  to  tears,  interspersed  with  nods, 
by  his  reading,  has  barely  time  to  mutter  that  such  a  wife 
was  too  good  to  live  long-  in  these  days,  when  the  servant 
announces  that  "  McLaughlin  has  come,  sir." 

John  McLaughlin, \  who  now  enters,  is  a  stone-cutter  and 


*  Two  journals  notoriously  rich  in  strong-minded  female  contributors. 

t  In  the  original ;  "Ethelinda,  Reverential  wife  of  Mr.  Thomas  Sapsea,  Auctioneer, 
Valuer,  Estate  Agent,  etc.  of  this  city.  Whose  knowledge  of  the  world,  though^some- 
what  extensive,  never  brought  him  acquainted  with  a  Spirit  more  capable  of  looking 
up  to  Him.  Stranger,  pause  and  ask  thyself  the  question  ;  canst  thou  do  likewise? 
If  not,  with  a  Blush  Retire." 
-  *  In  the  original,  Durdles,  a  stone  mason. 


46  MR.  SWEENEY. 

mason,  much  employed  in  patching  dilapidated  graves  and 
cutting  inscriptions,  and  popularly  known  in  Bumsteadville, 
on  account  of  the  dried  mortar  perpetually  hanging  about 
him,  as  "Old  Mortarity."  He  is  a  ricketty  man,  with  a 
chronic  disease  called  bar-roomatism,  and  so  very  grave- 
yardy  in  his  very  '  Hie '  that  one  almost  expects  a  jacet  to 
follow  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"John  McLaughlin,"  says  Judge  Sweeney,  handing  him 
the  paper  with  the  Epitaph,  "  there  is  the  inscription  for  the 
stone." 

"  I  guess  I  can  get  it  all  on,  sir,"  says  McLaughlin. 
"  Your  servant,  Mr.  Bumstead." 

"Ah,  John  McLaughlin,  how  are  you?"  says  Mr.  Bum- 
stead,  his  hand  with  the  tumbler  vaguely  wandering  toward 
where  the  bowl  formerly  stood.  "  By  the  way,  John  Mc- 
Laughlin, how  came  you  to  be  called  '  Old  Mortarity  ? '  It 
has  a  drunken  sound,  John  McLaughlin,  like  one  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  characters  disguised  in  liquor." 

"Never  you  mind  about  that,"  says  McLaughlin.  "I 
carry  the  keys  of  the  Bumsteadville  churchyard  vaults,  and 
can  tell  to  an  atom,  by  a  tap  of  my  trowel,  how  fast  a 
skeleton  is  dropping  to  dust  in  the  pauper  burial-ground. 
That's  more  than  they  can  do  who  call  me  names."  With 
which  ghastly  speech  John  McLaughlin  retires  unceremoni- 
ously from  the  room. 

Judge  Sweeney  now  attempts  a  game  of  backgammon 
with  the  man  of  taste,  but  becomes  discouraged  after  Mr. 


MR.  SWEENEY.  47 

Bumstead  has  landed  the  dice  in  his  vest-opening  three  times 
running  and  fallen  heavily  asleep  in  the  middle  of  a  move. 
An  ensuing  potato  salad  is  made  equally  discouraging  by  Mr. 
Bumstead' s  persistent  attempts  to  cut  up  his  handkerchief  in 
it.  Finally,  Mr.  Bumstead  wildly  finds  his  way  to  his  feet, 
is  plunged  into  profound  gloom  at  discovering  the  condition 
of  his  hat,  attempts  to  leave  the  room  by  each  of  the  win- 
dows and  closets  in  succession,  and  at  last  goes  tempestu- 
ously through  the  door  by  accident. 


48  MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MR.  MCLAUGHLIN   AND   FRIEND. 

JOHN  BUMSTEAD,  on  his  way  home  along  the  unsteady 
turnpike — upon  which  he  is  sure  there  will  be  a  dreadful 
accident  some  day,  for  want  of  railings  —  is  suddenly 
brought  to  an  unsettled  pause  in  his  career  by  the  spectacle 
of  Old  Mortarity  leaning  against  the  low  fence  of  the  pauper 
burial-ground,  with  a  shapeless  boy  throwing  stones  at  him 
in  the  moonlight.  The  stones  seem  never  to  hit  the  vener- 
able John  McLaughlin,  and  at  each  miss  the  spry  monkey  of 
the  moonlight  sings  "  sold  again,",  and  casts  another  missile 
still  further  from  the  mark.  One  of  these  give  violently  to 
the  nose  of  Mr.  Bumstead,  who,  after  a  momentary  enjoy- 
ment of  the  evening  fireworks  thus  lighted  off,  makes  a 
wrathful  rush  at  the  playful  child,  and  lifts  him  from  the 
ground  by  his  ragged  collar,  like  a  diminished  suit  of  Mr. 
Greeley's  customary  habiliments. 

"Miserable  snipe,"  demands  Bumstead,  eying  his  trophy 
gloomily,  and  giving  him  a  turn  or  two  as  though  he  were  a 
mackerel  under  inspection,  "what  are  you  doing  to  that 
gooroleman  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come  now !  "  says  the  lad  sparring  at  him  in  the  air, 


MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND.  49 

"you  just  lemme  be,  or  I'll  fetch  you  a  wipe  in  the  jaw.  I 
ain't  doing  nothink  ;  and  he's  werry  good  to  me,  he  is." 

Mr.  Bumstead  drops  the  presumptuous  viper,  but  imme- 
diately seizes  him  by  an  ear  and  leads  him  to  McLaughlin, 
whom  he  asks  :  "  Do  you  know  this  insect  ?" 

"  Smalley,"  *  says  McLaughlin  with  a  nod. 

"Is  that  the  name  of  the  sardine  ?  " 

"  Blagyerboots,"  adds  McLaughlin. 

"  Shine  'em  up,  red  hot,"  explains  the  boy.  "  I'm  one 
of  them  fellers."  Here  he  breaks  away  and  hops  out  again 
into  the  road,  singing  : 

"Aina,  maina,  mona,  Mike, 
Bassalona,  bona,  strike  ! 
Hay,  way,  crown,  rack, 
Hallico,  ballico,  we  —  wo  —  wack  !  " 

—  which  he  evidently  intends  as  a  kind  of  Hitalian ;  for  sim- 
ultaneously, he  aims  a  stone  at  John  McLaughlin,  grazes 
Mr.  Bumstead' s  whiskers  instead,  and  in  another  instant  a 
sound  of  breaking  glass  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

"Peace,  young  scorpion!"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  with  a 
commanding  gesture.  "  John  McLaughlin,  let  me  see  you 
home.  The  road  is  too  unsteady  to-night  for  an  old  man 
like  you.  Let  me  see  you  home,  as  far  as  my  house,  at 
least." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I'd  make  better  time  alone.     When  you 

*  In   the  original,   '"Deputy!  man-servant   up  at  the  Travellers'  two-penny  in 
Gas  Works  Carding." 

3 


50  MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND. 

came  up,  sir,  Old  Mortarity  was  meditating  on  this  bone- 
farm,"  says  Mr.  McLaughlin,  pointing  with  a  trowel,  which 
he  had  drawn  from  his  pocket,  into  the  pauper  burial-ground. 
"  He  was  thinking  of  the  many  laid  here  when  the  Aims- 
House  over  yonder  used  to  be  open  as  a  Aims-House.  I've 
patched  up  all  these  graves,  as  well  as  them  in  the  Ritual 
churchyard,  and  know 'em  all,  sir.  Over  there,  Editor  of 
Country  Journal ;  next,  Stockholder  in  Erie  ;  next,  Gentle- 
man who  Undertook  to  be  Guided  in  His  Agriculture  by 
Mr.  Greeley's  '  What  I  Know  about  Farming ; '  next, 
Original  Projector  of  American  Punch;  next,  Pro- 
prietor of  Rural  Newspaper;  next,  another  Projector 
of  American  Punch ;  —  indeed,  all  the  rest  of  that 
row  is  American  Punches ;  next,  Conductor  of  Rustic 
Daily;  next,  Manager  of  Italian  Opera;  next,  Stockholder  in 
Morris  and  Essex ;  next,  American  Novelist ;  next,  Husband 
of  Literary  Woman ;  next,  Pastor  of  Southern  Church ;  next, 
Conductoi>of  Provincial  Press. —  I  know  'em  ALL,  sir,"  says 
Old  Mortarity,  with  exquisite  pathos,  "  and  if  a  flower  could 
spring  up  for  every  tear  a  friendless  old  man  has  dropped 
upon  their  neglected  graves,  you  couldn't  see  the  wooden 
head-boards  for  the  roses." 

"  Tharsverytrue,"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  much  affected  — 
"Not  see  'em  for  your  noses — beaut'ful  idea!  You're  a 
gooroleman,  sir.  Here  comes  Smalley  again." 

"I  ain't  doing  nothink,  and  you're  all  the  time  wanting 
me  to  move  on,  and  he's  werry  good  to  me,  he  is,"  whimpers 


MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND.  51 

Smalley,  throwing  a  stone  at  Mr.  Bumstead  and  hitting  Old 
Mortality. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  always  aim  at  me  /"  cries  the  latter, 
angrily  rubbing  the  place.  "  Don't  I  give  you  a  penny  a 
night  to  aim  right  at  me  ?  " 

"  I  only  chucked  once  at  him,"  says  the  youth  penitently. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Bumstead,"  explains  John  McLaughlin,  "I 
give  him  an  Object  in  life.  I  am  that  Object,  and  it  pays 
me.  If  you've  ever  noticed  these  boys,  sir,  they  never  hit 
what  they  aim  at.  If  they  throw  at  a  pigeon  on  a  tree,  the 
stone  goes  through  a  garret  winder.  If  they  throw  at  a 
dog,  it  hits  some  passer-by  on  the  leg.  If  they  throw  at 
each  other,  it  takes  you  in  the  back  as  you're  turnin'  a  cor- 
ner. I  used  to  be  getting  hit  all  over  every  night  from 
Smalley' s  aiming  at  dogs,  and  pigeons,  and  boys,  like  him- 
self; but  now  I  hire  him  to  aim  at  me,  exclusively,  and  I'm 
all  safe.  —  There  he  goes,  now,  misses  me,  and  breaks  an- 
other winder." 

"Here,  Smalley,"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  as  another  stone, 
aimed  at  McLaughlin,  strikes  himself,  "take  this  other 
penny,  and  aim  at  both  of  us." 

Thus  perfectly  protected  from  painful  contusion,  although 
the  air  continues  full  of  stones,  Mr.  Bumstead  takes  John 
McLaughlin's  arm,  as  they  move  onward,  to  protect  the  old 
man  from  harm,  and  is  so  careful  to  pick  out  the  choice 
parts  of  the  road  for  him  that  their  progress  is  digressive  in 
the  extreme. 


52  MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND. 

"  I  have  heard,"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  "  that  at  one  end  of 
the  pauper  burial-ground  there  still  remains  the  cellar  of  a 
former  chapel  to  the  Aims-House,  and  that  you  have 
broken  through  into  it,  and  got  a  step-ladder  to  go  down. 
Isthashso  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  and  there's  coffins  down  there." 

"  Yours  is  a  hic-stremely  strange  life,  John  McLaughlin." 

"It's  certainly  a  very  damp  one,"  says  McLaughlin, 
silently  urging  his  strange  conpanion  to  support  a  little  more 
of  his  own  weight  in  walking.  "But  it  has  its  science. 
Over  in  the  Ritualistic  burial-yard,  I  tap  the  wall  of  a  vault 
with  my  trowel-handle,  and  if  the  sound  is  hollow  I  say  to 
myself:  '  Not  full  yet.'  Say  it's  the  First  of  May,  and  I  tap 
a  coffin,  and  don't  hear  anything  move  in  it,  I  say  :  '  Either 
you're  not  a  woman  in  there,  or,  if  you  are,  you  never  kept 
house.' — Because,  you  see,  if  it  was  a  woman  that  ever  kept 
house,  it  would  take  but  the  least  thing  in  the  world  to  make 
her  insist  upon  '  moving '  on  the  First  of  May." 

"Won'rful!"  says  Mr.  Bumstead.  "Sometime  when 
you're  sober,  John  McLaughlin,  I'll  do  a  grave  or  two  with 
you." 

On  their  way  they  reach  a  bar-room,  into  which  Mr.  Bum- 
stead  is  anxious  to  take  Old  Mortality,  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  something  to  make  the  latter  stronger  for  his  remain- 
ing walk.  Failing  in  his  ardent  entreaties  to  this  end  — 
even  after  desperately  offering  to  eat  a  few  cloves  himself 
for  the  sake  of  company  —  he  coldly  bids  the  stone-cutter 


MR.  MCLAUGHLIN  AND  FRIEND.  53 

good-night,  and  starts  haughtily  in  a  series  of  spirals  for  his 
own  home.  Suddenly  catching  sight  of  Smalley  in  the  dis- 
tance, he  furiously  grasps  a  stone  to  throw  at  him ;  but 
allowing  his  hand  to  describe  too  much  of  a  circle  before 
parting  with  the  stone,  the  latter  strikes  the  back  of  his  own 
head,  and  he  goes  on,  much  confused. 

Arriving  in  his  own  room,  and  arising  from  the  all-fours 
attitude  in  which,  from  eccentricity,  he  has  ascended  the 
stairs,*  Mr.  Bumstead  takes  from  a  cupboard  a  curious 
antique  flask,  and  nearly  fills  a  tumbler  from  its  amber-hued 
contents.  He  drinks  the  potion  with  something  like  frenzy ; 
then  softly  steals  to  the  door  of  a  room  opening  into  his  own, 
and  looks  in  upon  Edwin  Drood.  Calm  and  untroubled  lies 
his  nephew  there,  in  pleasant  dreams.  "They  are  both 
asleep,"  whispers  Mr.  Bumstead  to  himself.  He  goes  back 
to  his  own  bed,  accompanied  unconsciously  by  a  chair 
caught  in  his  coat-tail ;  puts  on  his  hat,  opens  an  umbrella 
over  his  head,  and  lies  down  to  dread  serpentine  visions. 


54:  INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

INSURANCE   IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH. 

THE  Reverend  Octavius  Simpson  (Octavius,  because  there 
had  been  seven  other  little  Simpsons,  who  all  took  after 
their  father  when  he  died  of  mumps,  like  seven  kittens  after 
the  parental  tail,)  having  thrown  himself  all  over  the  room 
with  a  pair  of  dumb-bells  much  too  strong  for  him,  and  taken 
a  seidlitz  powder  to  oblige  his  dyspepsia,  was  now  parting 
his  back  hair  before  a  looking-glass.  An  unimpeachably 
consumptive  style  of  clerical  beauty  did  the  mirror  reflect ; 
the  countenance  contracting  to  an  expression  of  almost 
malevolent  piety  when  the  comb  went  over  a  bump,  and 
relaxing  to  an  open-mouthed  charity  for  all  mankind, 
amounting  nearly  to  imbecility,  when  the  more  complex  re- 
quirements of  the  parting  process  compelled  twists  of  the 
head  scarcely  compatible  with  even  so  much  as  a  squint  at 
the  glass. 

It  being  breakfast  time,  Mrs.  Simpson  —  mother  of  Octa- 
vius—  was  just  down  for  the  meal,  and  surveyed  the  opera- 
tion with  a  look  of  undisguised  anxiety. 

'-'  You'll  break  one  of  them  yet,  some  morning,  Octave," 
said  the  old  lady. 


INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH,  55 

"  Do  what,  Oldy  ?  "  asked  the  writhing  Gospeller,  appar 
ently  speaking  out  of  his  right  ear. 

"You'll  break  either  the  comb,  or  your  neck,  some  morn- 
ing." 

Rendered  momentarily  irritable  by  this  aggravating  re- 
mark, the  Reverend  Octavius  made  a  jab  with  the  comb  at 
the  old  lady's  false-front,  pulling  it  down  quite  askew  over 
her  left  eye ;  but,  upon  the  sudden  entrance  of  a  servant 
with  the  tea-pot,  he  made  precipitate  pretence  that  his  hand 
was  upon  his  mother's  head  to  give  her  a  morning  blessing. 

They  were  a  striking  pair  to  sit  at  breakfast  together  in 
Gospeller's  Gulch,*  Bumsteadville  :  she  with  her  superb  old 
nut-cracker  countenance,  and  he  with  the  dyspepsia  of  more 
than  thirty  summers  causing  him  to  deal  gently  with  the  fish- 
balls.  They  sat  within  sound  of  the  bell  of  the  Ritualistic 
Church,  the  ringing  of  which  was  forever  deluding  the  peas- 
antry of  the  surrounding  country  into  the  idea  that  they 
could  certainly  hear  their  missing  cows  at  last  (hence  the 
name  of  the  church  —  Saint  Cow's) ;  while  the  sonorous  hee- 
hawing  of  an  occasional  Nature's  Congressman  in  some 
distant  field  reminded  them  of  the  outer  political  world. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Schenck's  letter,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  hand- 
ing an  open  epistle  across  the  table,  as  she  spoke,  to  her 
son,  "  and  you  might  read  it  aloud,  my  Octave." 

Taking  the  tea-cup  off  his  face,  the  Reverend  Octavius 
accepted  the  missive,  which  was  written  from  "A  Perfect 

*  In  the  original,  Minor  Cation  Corner. 


56  INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S    GULCH. 

Stranger's  Parlor,  New  York,"  and  began  reading   thus : 
"  Dear  Ma-a-dam — 

I  wri-i-te  in  the-e 
Chai-ai-ai-air  —  " 

"  Dear  me,  Octave,"  interrupted  the  old  lady,  "  can't  you 
read  even  a  letter  without  Intoning  —  and  to  the  tune  of 
'  Old  Hundredth,'  too  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  dear  Oldy,"  responded  the  Gospeller. 
"  I'm  so  much  in  the  habit  of  it.  You're  not  so  ritualistic 
yourself,  and  may  be  able  to  do  better." 

"  Give  it  back  to  me,  my  sing-sing-sonny,"  said  the  old 
lady  ;  who  at  once  read  as  follows  :  "  Dear  Madam,  I  write 
from  the  chair  which  I  have  now  occupied  for  six  hours,  in 
the  house  of  a  man  whom  I  never  saw  before  in  my  life,  but 
who  comes  next  in  the  Directory  to  the  obstinate  but  finally 
conquered  being  under  whose  roof  I  resolutely  passed  the 
greater  part  of  yesterday.  He  sits  near  me  in  another 
chair,  so  much  weakened  that  he  can  just  reply  to  me  in 
whispers,  and  I  believe  that  a  few  hours  more  of  my  talk 
will  leave  him  no  choice  between  dying  of  exhaustion  at  my 
feet  and  taking  a  Policy  in  the  Boreal  Life  Insurance  Com- 
pany, of  which  I  am  Agent.  I  have  spoken  to  my  wards, 
Montgomery  and  Magnolia  Pendragon,*  concerning  Mag- 
nolia's being  placed  at  school  in  the  Macassar,'  and  Mont- 
gomery's acceptance  of  your  son,  Octavius,  as  his  tutor,  and- 
shall  take  them  with  me  to  Bumsteadville  to-morrow,  foi 

*  In  the  original,  Neville  and  Helena  Landless,  from  Celyon. 


INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLERS   GULCH.  57 

such  disposition.  Hoping,  Madam,  that  neither  you  not 
your  son  will  much  longer  fly  into  the  face  of  Providence  by 
declining  to  insure  your  lives,  through  me,  in  the  Boreal, 
I  have  the  honor  to  be  Yours,  for  two  Premiums,  Melanc- 
thon  Schenck."* 

"Well,  Oldy,"  said  Octavius,  with  dismal  countenance, 
"  do  you  think  we'll  have  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Do  what?  "  asked  the  old  lady. 

"  Let  him  insure  us." 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  come  to  that  yet,  Octave.  I've  known 
persons  to  die  under  him." 

"  Well,  well,  Heaven's  will  be  done,"  muttered  the  pa- 
tient Gospeller. 

"And  now,  mother,  we  must  do  something  to  make  the 
first  coming  of  these  young  strangers  seem  cheerful  to  them. 
We  must  give  a  little  dinner-party  here,  and  invite  Miss 
Carowthers,  and  Bumstead  and  his  nephew,  and  the  Flower- 
pot. Don't  you  think  the  codfish  will  go  round  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear  :  that  is,  if  you  and  I  take  the  spiner"  replied 
the  old  lady. 

So  the  party  of  reception  was  arranged,  and  the  invitations 
hurried  out. 

At  about  half  an  hour  before  dinner  there  was  a  sound  in 
the  air  of  Bumsteadville  as  of  a  powerful  stump-speaker  ad- 
dressing a  mass-meeting  in  the  distance ;  rapidly  intensify- 
ing to  stentorian  phrases,  such  as —  "  provide  for  your 

*  In  the  original,  Luke  Honey  thunder,  professional  Philanthropist. 

3* 


58  INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH. 

miserable  surviving  offspring "  —  "  lower  rates  than  any 
other  company"  —  "full  amount  cheerfully  paid  upon  hear- 
ing of  your  death "  —  until  a  hack  appeared  coming  down 
the  cross-road  descending  into  Gospeller's  Gulch,  and 
stopped  at  the  Gospeller's  door.  As  the  faint  driver,  trem- 
bling with  nervous  debility  from  great  excess  of  deathly  ad- 
monition addressed  to  him,  through  the  front  window  of  his 
hack,  all  the  way  from  the  ferry,  checked  his  horses  in  one 
feeble  gasp  of  remaining  strength,  the  Reverend  Octavius 
stepped  forth  from  the  doorway  to  greet  Mr.  Schenck  and 
the  dark-complexioned,  sharp-eyed  young  brother  and  sister 
who  came  with  him. 

"  Now  remember,  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Schenck  to  the  driver, 
after  he  had  come  out  of  the  vehicle,  shaking  his  cane 
menacingly  at  him  as  he  spoke,  "  I've  warned  you  in  time, 
to  prepare  for  death,  and  given  you  a  Schedule  of  our  rates 
to  *ead  to  your  family.  If  you  should  die  of  apoplexy  in  a 
week,  as  you  probably  will,  your  wife  must  pick  rags,  and 
your  children  play  a  harp  and  fiddle.  Dream  of  it,  think  of 
it,  dissolute  man,  and  take  a  Policy  in  the  Boreal." 

As  the  worn-out  hackman,  too  despondent  at  thought  of 
his  impending  decease  and  family-bankruptcy  to  make  any 
other  answer  than  a  groan,  drove  wretchedly  away,  the 
genial  Mr.  Schenck  hoarsely  introduced  the  young  Pendra- 
gons  to  the  Gospeller,  and  went  with  them  after  the  latter 
into  the  house. 

The  Reverend  Octavius  Simpson,  with  dire  forebodings  of 


INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH.  59 

the  discomfiture  of  his  dear  old  nut-cracker  of^a  mother,  did 
the  honors  of  a  general  introduction  with  a  perfect  failure  of 
a  smile ;  and,  thenceforth,  until  dinner  was  over,  Mr.  Schenck 
was  the  Egyptian  festal  skeleton  that  continually  reminded 
the  banqueters  of  their  latter  ends. 

"Great  Heavens  !  what  signs  of  the  seeds  of  the  tomb  do 
I  not  see  all  around  me  here,"  observed  Mr  Schenck,  in  a 
deep  base  voice,  as  he  helped  himself  to  more  codfish. 
"  Here  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Simpson,  withering  under  our 
very  eyes  with  Dyspepsia.  In  Mr.  Bumstead's  manly,  eye 
you  can  perceive  Congestion  of  the  Brain.  General  De- 
bility has  marked  the  venerable  Mrs.  Simpson  for  its  own. 
Miss  Potts  and  Magnolia  can  bloom  and  eat  caramels  now ; 
but  what  will  be  their  anguish  when  malignant  Small  Pox 
rages,  as  it  surely  must,  next  month !  Mr.  Drood  and 
Montgomery  are  rejoicing  in  the  health  and  thin  legs  of 
youth ;  but  how  many  lobster  salads  are  there  between  thj^m 
and  fatal  Cholera  Morbus?  As  for  Miss  Elizabeth  Cady 
Carowthers,  there,  her  Skeleton  is  already  coming  through 
at  the  shoulders.  —  Oh,  my  friends  ! "  exclaimed  the  ghastly 
Mr.  Schenck,  with  beautiful  enthusiasm,  "  insure  while  yet 
there  is  time ;  that  the  kindred,  or  friends,  whom  you  will  all 
leave  behind,  probably,  within  the  next  three  months,  may 
have  something  to  keep  them  from  the  Poor-House,  or,  its 
dread  alternative  —  Crime  ! "  He  considerately  paused  un- 
til the  shuddering  was  over,  and  then  added  with  melting 
softness  —  "I'll  leave  a  few  of  our  Schedules  with  you." 


60  INSURANCE  IN  GOSPELLER'S   GULCH. 

When,  at  last,  this  boon-companion  said  that  he  must  go, 
it  was  surprising  to  see  with  what  passionate  cordiality 
everybody  helped  him  off.  Mr.  Bumstead  frenziedly  crammed 
his  hat  upon  his  beaming  head,  and,  with  one  eager  blow 
on  the  top,  drove  it  far  down  over  his  ears ;  Flora  Potts  and 
Magnolia  thrust  each  a  buckskin  glove  far  up  either  sleeve  ; 
Miss  Carowthers  frantically  stuck  one  of  his  overshoes  under 
each  arm ;  Mr.  Drood  wildly  dragged  his  coat  over  his  form, 
without  troubling  him  at  all  about  the  sleeves,  and  breathless- 
ly buttoned  it  to  the  neck  ;  and  the  Reverend  Octavius  and 
Montgomery  hurried  him  forth  by  the  shoulders,  as  though 
the  house  were  on  fire  and  he  the  very  last  to  be  snatched 
from  the  falling  beams. 

These  latter  two  then  almost  ran  with  him  to  the  livery 
stable  where  he  was  to  obtain  a  hack  for  the  ferry ;  leaving 
him  in  charge  of  the  liveryman  —  who,  by  the  way,  he  at 
once  frightened  into  a  Boreal  Policy,  by  a  few  felicitous  re- 
marks (while  the  hack  was  preparing)  upon  the  curious 
recent  fatality  of  Heart-Disease  amongst  middle-aged  podgy 
men  with  bulbous  noses. 


MORE  CONFIDENCES   THAN  ONE.  61 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MORE   CONFIDENCES   THAN   ONE. 

"  You  and  your  sister  have  been  insured,  of  course,"  said 
the  Gospeller  to  Montgomery  Pendragon,  as  they  returned 
from  escorting  Mr.  Schenck. 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Montgomery,  with  a  suppressed 
moan.  "  He  is  our  guardian,  and  has  trampled  us  into  a 
couple  of  policies.  We  had  to  yield,  or  excess  of  Boreal 
conversation  would  have  made  us  maniacs." 

"You  speak  bitterly  for  one  so  young,"  observed  the  Rev- 
erend Octavius  Simpson.  "  Is  it  derangement  of  the  stom- 
ach, or  have  you  known  sorrow  ?  " 

"  Heaps  of  sorrow,"  answered  the  young  man.  "  You 
may  be  aware,  sir,  that  my  sister  and  I  belong  to  a  fine  old 
heavily  mortgaged  Southern  family  —  the  Penrutherses  and 
Munchausens  of  Chipmunk  Court  House,  Virginia,  are  our 
relatives  —  and  that  Sherman  marched  through  us  during 
the  late  southward  projection  of  certain  of  your  Northern 
military  scorpions.  After  our  father's  felo-desease,  ensuing 
remotely  from  an  overstrain  in  attempting  to  lift  a  large 
mortgage,  our  mother  gave  us  a  step-father  of  Northern 
birth,  who  tried  to  amend  our  constitutions  and  reconstruct 
us." 


62  MORE    CONFIDENCES    THAN  ONE. 

"  Dreadful ! "  murmured  the  Gospeller. 

"  We  hated  him  !  Magnolia  threw  her  scissors  at  him  sev- 
eral times.  My  sister,  sir,  does  not  know  what  fear  is.  She 
would  fight  a  lion  ;  inheriting  the  spirit  from  our  father,  who, 
I  have  heard  said,  frequently  fought  a  tiger.  She  can  fire  a 
gun  and  pick  off  a  State  Senator  as  well  as  any  man  in  all 
the  South.  Our  mother  died.  A  few  mornings  thereafter 
our  step-father  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  and  the  doctors 
said  he  died  of  a  pair  of  scissors  which  he  must  have  swal- 
lowed accidentally  in  his  youth,  and  which  were  found,  after 
his  death,  to  have  worked  themselves  several  inches  out  of 
his  side,  near  the  heart." 

"Swallowed  a  pair  of  scissors  !"  exclaimed  the  Reverend 
Octavius. 

"  He  might  have  had  a  stitch  in  his  side  at  the  time,  you 
know,  and  wanted  to  cut  it,"  explained  Montgomery.  -  "  At 
any  rate,  after  that  we  became  wards  of  Mr.  Schenck,  up 
North  here.  And  now  let  me  ask  you,  sir,  is  this  Mr. 
Edwin  Drood  a  student  with  you  ?  " 

"  No.  He  is  visiting  his  uncle,  Mr.  Bumstead,"  answered 
the  Gospeller,  who  could  not  free  his  mind  from  the  horrible 
thought  that  his  young  companion's  fearless  sister  might 
have  been  in  some  way  acscissory  to  the  sudden  cutting  off 
of  her  step-father's  career. 

"  Is  Miss  Flora  Potts  his  sister  ?  " 

Mr.  Simpson  told  the  story  of  the  betrothal  of  the  young 
couple  by  their  respective  departed  parents. 


MORE   CONFIDENCES   THAN  ONE.  63 

•'  Oh,  that's  the  game,  eh  ?  "  said  Montgomery.  "  I  un- 
derstand now  his  whispering  to  me  that  he  wished  he  was 
dead."  In  a  moment  afterwards  they  re-entered  the  house 
in  Gospeller's  Gulch. 

The  air  was  slightly  laden  with  the  odor  of  cloves  as  they 
went  into  the  parlor,  and  Mr.  Bumstead  was  at  the  piano, 
accompanying  the  Flowerpot  while  she  sang.  Executing 
without  notes,  and  with  his  stony  gaze  fixed  intently  between 
the  nose  and  chin  of  the  singer,  Mr.  Bumstead  had  a  certain 
mesmeric  appearance  of  controlling  the  words  coming  out 
of  the  rosy  mouth.  Standing  beside  Miss  Potts  was  Mag- 
nolia Pendragon,  seemingly  fascinated,  as  it  were,  by  the 
Bumstead  method  of  playing,  in  which  the  performer's  fin- 
gers performed  almost  as  frequently  upon  the  woodwork  of 
the  instrument  as  upon  the  keys.  Mr.  Pendragon  surveyed 
the  group  with  an  arm  resting  on  the  mantel ;  Mr.  Simpson 
took  a  chair  by  his  maternal  nut-cracker,  and  Mr.  Drood 
stealthily  practised  with  his  ball  on  a  chair  behind  the  sofa. 

The  Flowerpot  was  singing  a  neat  thing  by  Longfellow 
about  the  Evening  Star,  and  seemed  to  experience  the  most 
remarkable  psychological  effects  from  Mr.  Bumstead' s 
wooden  variations  and  extraordinary  stare  at  the  lower  part 
of  her  countenance.  Thus,  she  twitched  her  plump  shoul- 
ders strangely,  and  sang  — 

"  Just  a-bove  yon  sandy  bar, 
As  the  day  grows  faint  —  (te-hee-he-he  !) 
Lonely  and  lovely  a  single  —  (now  do-o-n't  !) 
Lights  the  air  with  "  —  (sto-o-op  !     It  tickles  — ) 


64:  MORE   CONFIDENCES   THAN  ONE. 

Convulsively  giggling  and  exclaiming,  alternately,  Miss  Potts 
abruptly  ended  her  beautiful  bronchial  noise  with  violent  dis- 
tortion of  countenance,  as  though  there  were  a  spider  in  her 
mouth,  and  sank  upon  a  chair  in  a  condition  almost  hyster- 
ical. 

"  Your  playing  has  made  Sissy  nervous,  Jack,"  said  Ed- 
win Drood,  hastily  concealing  his  ball  and  coming  forward. 
"  I  noticed,  myself,  that  you  played  more  than  half  the  notes 
in  the  air,  or  on  the  music-rack,  without  touching  the  keys 
at  all." 

"  That  is  because  I  am  not  accustomed  to  playing  upon 
two  pianos  at  once,"  answered  Bumstead,  who,  at  that  very 
moment,  was  industriously  playing  the  rest  of  the  air  some 
inches  from  the  nearest  key. 

"He  couldn't  make  me  nervous!"  exclaimed  Miss  Pen- 
dragon,  decidedly. 

They  bore  the  excited  Flowerpot  (who  still  tittered  a  lit- 
tle, and  was  nervously  feeling  her  throat)  to  the  window,  for 
air;  and  when  they  came  back  Mr.  Bumstead  was  gone. 
"There,  Sissy,"  said  Edwin  Drood,  "you've  driven  him 
away ;  and  I'm  half  afraid  he  feels  unpleasantly  confused 
about  it ;  for  he's  got  out  of  the  rear  door  of  the  house  by 
mi§take,  and  I  can  hear  him  trying  to  find  his  way  home  in 
the  back-yard." 

The  two  young  men  escorted  Miss  Carowthers  and  the 
two  young  ladies  to  the  door  of  the  Aims-House,  and  there 
bade  them  good-night ;  but,  at  a  yet  later  hour,  Flora  Potts 


MORE   CONFIDENCES   THAN  ONE.  65 

and  the  new  pupil  still  conversed  in  the  chamber  which  they 
were  to  occupy  conjointly. 

After  discussing  the  fashions  with  great  excitement ;  ask- 
ing each  other  just  exactly  what  each  gave  for  every  article 
she  wore;  and  successively  practising  male-discouraging, 
male-encouraging  and  chronically-indifferent  expressions  of 
face  in  the  mirror  (as  all  good  young  ladies  always  do  pre- 
paratory to  their  evening  prayers),  the  lovely  twain  made 
solemn  nightcap-oath  of  eternal  friendship  to  each  other,  and 
then,  of  course,  began  picking  the  men  to  pieces. 

"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Bumstead  ?  "  asked  Magnolia,  who  was 
now  looking  much  like  a  ghost. 

"  He's  that  absurd  Eddy's  ridiculous  uncle,  and  my  mu- 
sic-teacher," answered  the  Flowerpot,  also  presenting  an 
emaciated  appearance. 

"  You  do  not  love  him  ?  "  queried  Magnolia. 

"  Now  go'wa-a-ay !  How  perfectly  disgusting !  "  protested 
FJora. 

"  You  know  that  he  loves  you ! " 

" Do-o-n't !"  pleaded  Miss  Potts,  nervously.  "You'll 
make  me  fidgetty  again,  just  thinking  of  to-night.  It  was  too 
perfectly  absurd." 

"What  was?" 

"  Why,  he  was,  —  Mr.  Bumstead.  It  gave  me  the  funni- 
est feeling  !  It  was  as  though  some  one  was  trying  to  see 
through  you,  you  know." 

"  My  child  ! "    exclaimed  Miss  Pendragon,  dropping  her 


66  MORE    CONFIDENCES   THAN  ONE. 

cheek-distenders  upon  the  bureau,  "you  speak  strangely. 
Has  that  man  gained  any  power  over  you  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  returned  Flora,  wiping  off  a  part  of  her  left 
eyebrow  with  cold  cream.  "  But  didn't  you  see  ?  He  was 
looking  right  down  my  throat  all  the  time  I  was  singing,  un- 
til it  actually  tickled  me  !  " 

"  Does  he  always  do  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  he  always  does !"  whimpered  the 
nervous  Flowerpot.  "  Oh,  he's  such  an  utterly  ridiculous 
creature  !  Sometimes  when  we're  in  company  together,  and 
I  smell  cloves,  and  look  at  him,  I  think  that  I  see  the  lid  of 
his  right  eye  drop  over  the  ball  and  tremble  at  me  in  the 
strangest  manner.  And  sometimes  his  eyes  seem  fixed  mo- 
tionless in  his  head,  as  they  did  to-night,  and  he'll  appear  to 
wander  off  into  a  kind  of  a  dream,  and  feel  about  in  the  air 
with  his  right  arm  as  though  he  wanted  to  hug  somebody. 
Oh  !  my  throat  begins  to  tickle  again  !  Oh,  stay  with  me, 
and  be  my  absurdly  ridiculous  friend ! " 

The  dark-featured  Southern  linen  spectre  leaned  sooth- 
ingly above  the  other  linen  spectre,  with  a  bottle  of  camphor 
in  her  hand,  near  the  bureau  upon  which  the  back-hair  of 
both  was  piled ;  and  in  the  flash  of  her  black  eyes,  and  the 
defiant  flirt  of  the  kid-gloves  dipped  in  glycerine  which  she 
was  drawing  on  her  hands,  lurked  death  by  lightning  and 
other  harsh  usage,  for  whomsoever  of  the  male  sex  should 
ever  be  caught  looking  down  in  the  mouth  again. 


A  DAGGERY  TYPE    OF  FOETALKRAPHY.          67 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

A   DAGGERY   TYPE    OF    FOETALKRAPHY. 

THE  two  young  gentlemen,  having  seen  their  blooming 
charges  safely  within  the  door  of  the  Aims-House,  and  vainly 
endeavored  to  look  through  the  keyhole  at  them  going  up- 
stairs, scuffle  away  together  with  that  sensation  of  blended 
imbecility  and  irascibility  which  is  equally  characteristic  of 
callow  youth  and  inexperienced  Thomas  Cats  when  retiring 
together  from  the  society  of  female  friends  who  seem  to  be 
still  on  the  fence  as  regards  their  ultimate  preferences. 

"  Do  you  bore  your  friends  here  long,  Mr.  Drood  ?  "  in- 
quires Montgomery ;  as  who  should  say :  Maouiw-ow-ooo  — 
sp't !  sp't ! 

"  Not  this  time,  Secesh,"  is  the  answer  ;  as  though  it  were 
observed,  ooo-ooo  —  sp't !  "I  leave  for  New  York  again  to- 
morrow ;  but  shall  be  off  and  on  again  in  Bumsteadville  un- 
til midsummer,  when  I  go  to  Egypt,  Illinois,  to  be  an  en- 
gineer on  a  railroad.  The  stamps  left  me  by  my  father  are 
all  in  the  stock  of  that  road,  and  the  Mr.  Bumstead  whom 
you  saw  to-night  is  my  uncle  and  guardian." 

"Mr.  Simpson  informs  me  that  you  are  destined  to  as- 
sume the  expenses  of  Miss  Potts,  when  you're  old  enough," 


68          A   DAGGER Y  TYPE  OF  FOETALKRAPHY. 

remarks  Montgomery,  his  eyes  shining  quite  greenly  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you'd  like  to  make  something  out  of  it," 
says  Edwin,  whose  orbs  have  assumed  a  yellowish  glitter. 
"  Perhaps  you  Southern  Confederacies  didn't  get  quite 
enough  of  it  at  Gettysburg  and  Five  Forks." 

"  We  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  killing  a  few  thousand 
Yankee  free-lovers,"  intimates  Montgomery,  with  a  hollow 
laugh. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  —  at  Andersonville,"  suggests 
Edwin  Drood,  beginning  to  roll  back  his  sleeves. 

"This  is  your  magnanimity  to  the  conquered,  is  it !"  ex- 
claims Montgomery,  scornfully.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  have 
your  advantages,  Mr.  Drood,  and  I've  scarcely  had  any  more 
education  than  an  American  Humorist ;  but  where  I  came  ' 
from,  if  a  carpet-bagger  should  talk  as  you  do,  the  cost  of 
his  funeral  would  be  but  a  trifle." 

"  I  can  prepare  you,  at  shortest  notice,  for  something  very 
neat  and  tasteful  in  the  silver-trimmed  rosewood  line,  with 
plated  handles,  my  dark-complexioned  Ku-klux,"  returns 
Mr.  Drood,  preparing  to  pull  off  his  coat. 

"Who  would  have  believed,"  soliloquizes  Montgomery 
Pendragon,  "that  even  a  scalawag  Northern  spoon-thief, 
like  our  scurrilous  contemporary,  would  get  so  mad  at  being 
reminded  that  he  must  be  married  some  day  ! " 

"Whoever  says  that  I'm  mad,"  is  the  answer,  "lies  delib- 


A  DAGGER Y  TYPE   OF  FOETALKRAPHY.          69 

erately,  wilfully,  wickedly,  with  naked  intent  to  defame  and 
malign." 

But  here  a  heavy  hand  suddenly  smites  Edwin  on  the  back, 
almost  snapping  his  head  off,  and  there  stands  spectrally  be- 
tween them  Mr.  Bumstead,  who  has  but  recently  found  his 
way  out  of  the  back-yard  in  Gospeller's  Gulch,  by  removing 
at  least  two  yards  of  picket  fence  from  the  wrong  place,  and 
wears  upon  his  head  a  gingham  sun-bonnet,  which,  in  his 
hurried  departure  through  the  hall  of  the  Gospeller's  house, 
he  has  mistaken  for  his  own  hat.  Sustaining  himself  against 
the  fierce  evening  breeze  by  holding  firmly  to  both  shoulders 
of  his  nephew,  this  striking  apparition  regards  the  two  young 
men  with  as  much  austerity  as  is  consistent  with  the  flap- 
ping of  the  cape  of  his  sun-bonnet. 

"  Gentlelemons,"  he  says,  with  painful  syllabic  distinct- 
ness, "  can  I  believe  my  ears  ?  Are  you  already  making 
journalists  of  yourselves  ?  " 

They  hang  their  heads  in  shame  under  the  merciless  but 
just  accusation.  "  Here  you  are,"  continues  Bumstead,  "  a 
quartette  of  young  fellows  who  should  all  be  friends.  Neds, 
Neds  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  Montgomeries,  you  should 
not  let  your  angry  passions  rise  ;  for  your  little  hands  were 
never  made  to  bark  and  bite."  After  this,  Mr.  Bumstead 
seems  lost  for  a  moment,  and  reclines  upon  his  nephew,  with 
his  eyes  closed  in  meditation.  "But  let's  all  five  of  us  go 
up  to  my  room,"  he  finally  adds,  and  restore  friendship  with 


TO          A  DAGGERY  TYPE    OF  FOETALKRAPHY. 

lemon  tea.     It  is  time  for  the  North  and  South  to  be  recon- 
ciled over  something  hot.     Come." 

Leaning  upon  both  of  them  now,  and  pushing  them  into  a 
walk,  he  exquisitely  turns  the  refrain  of  the  rejected  Na- 
tional Hymn  — 

'"Twas  by  a  mistake  that  we  lost  Bull  Run, 
When  we  all  skedaddled  to  Washington, 
And  we'll  all  drink  stone  blind, 
Johnny  fill  up  the  bowl ! " 

Thus  he  artfully  employs  music  to  soothe  their  sectional 
animosities,  and  only  skips  into  the  air  once  as  they  walk, 
with  a  "  Whoop  !  That  was  something  like  a  snake  ! " 

Arriving  in  his  room,  the  door  of  which  he  had  some 
trouble  in  opening,  on  account  of  the  knob  having  wandered 
in  his  absence  to  the  wrong  side,  Mr.  Bumstead  indicates  a 
bottle  of  lemon  tea,  with  some  glasses,  on  the  table,  acci- 
dentally places  the  lamp  so  that  it  shines  directly  upon 
Edwin's  triangular  sketch  of  Flora  over  the  mantel,  and  tak- 
ing his  umbrella  under  his  arm,  smiles  horribly  at  his  young 
guests  from  out  of  his  sun-bonnet. 

"  Do  you  recognize  that  picture,  Pendragons?"  he  asks, 
after  the  two  have  drunk  fierily  at  each  other.  "  Do  you 
notice  its  stereoscopic  effect  of  being  double  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  says  Montgomery,  critically,  "  a  good  deal  in  the 
style  of  Hennessy,  or  Winslow  Homer,  I  should  say.  Some- 
thing in  the  school- slate  method." 

"•  It's  by  Edwins,  there ! "  explains  Mr.   Bumstead,   tri- 


A  DAGGERY  TYPE    OF  FOETALKRAPIIY.          71 

umphantly.  "Just  look  at  him  as  he  sits  there  both  to- 
gether, with  all  his  happiness  cut  out  for  him,  and  his  dislike 
of  Southerners  his  only  fault." 

"  If  I  could  only  draw  Miss  Pendragon,  now,"  says  Edwin 
Drood,  rather  flattered,  "  I  might  do  better.  A  good  sharp 
nose  and  Southern  complexion  help  wonderfully  in  the  ex- 
pression of  a  picture." 

"  Perhaps  my  sister  would  prefer  to  choose  her  own  ar- 
tist," remarks  Montgomery,  to  whom  Mr.  Bumstead  has  just 
poured  out  some  more  lemon  tea. 

"  Say  a  Southern  one,  for  instance,  who  might  use  some 
of  the  flying  colors  that  were  always  warranted  to  run  when 
our  boys  got  after  yours  in  the  late  war,"  responds  Edwin,  to 
whom  his  attentive  uncle  has  also  poured  out  some  more 
lemon  tea  for  his  cold. 

"  For  instance  —  at  Fredericksburg,"  observes  Mont- 
gomery. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Fort  Donelsoh,"  returns  Edwin. 

The  conservative  Bumstead  strives  anxiously  to  allay  the 
irritation  of  his  young  guests  by  prodding  first  one  and  then 
the  other  with  his  umbrella ;  and,  in  an  attempt  to  hold  both 
of  them  and  the  picture  behind  him  in  one  commanding 
glance  under  his  sun-bonnet,  presents  a  phase  of  strabismus 
seldom  attained  by  human  eyes. 

"  If  I  only  had  you  down  where  I  come  from,  Mr.  Drood," 
cries  Montgomery,  tickled  into  ungovernable  wrath  by  the 


72         A  DAGGERY  TYPE   OF  FOETALKRAPHY. 

ferule  of  the  umbrella,  I'd  tar  and  feather  you  like  a  Yankee 
teacher,  and  then  burn  you  like  a  freedman's  church." 

«  Oh !  — if  you  only  had  me  there,  you'd  do  so,"  cries  Ed- 
win Drood,  springing  to  his  feet  as  the  umbrella  tortures  his 
ribs.  "If,  eh?  Pooh,  pooh,  my  young  fellow,  I  perceive 
that  you  are  a  mere  Cincinnati  Editor." 

The  degrading  epithet  goads  Pendragon  to  fury,  and,  after 
throwing  his  remaining  lemon  tea  about  equally  upon  Edwin 
and  the  sun-bonnet,  he  extracts  the  sugar  from  the  bottom 
of  the  glass  with  his  fingers,  and  uses  the  goblet  to  ward  off 
a  last  approach  of  the  umbrella. 

"  Edwins  !  Montgomeries ! "  exclaims  Mr.  Bumstead, 
opening  the  umbrella  between  them  so  suddenly  that  each  is 
grazed  on  the  nose  by  a  whalebone  rib,  "  I  command  you  to 
end  this  Congressional  debate  at  once.  I  never  saw  four 
such  young  men  before !  Montgomeries,  put  up  your  pen- 
knife thizinstant  ?  " 

Pushing  aside  the  barrier  of  alpaca  and  whalebone  from 
under  his  chin,  Montgomery  dashes  wildly  from  the  house, 
tears  madly  back  to  Gospeller's  Gulch,  and  astounds  the 
Gospeller  by  his  appearance. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Simpson,"  he  cries,  as  he  is  conducted  to  the 
door  of  his  own  room,  "  I  believe  that  I,  too,  inherit  some 
tigerish  qualities  from  that  tiger  my  father  is  said  to  have 
fought  so  often.  I've  had  a  political  discussion  with  Mr. 
Drood  in  Mr.  Bumstead' s  apartments,  and,  if  I'd  stayed 


A   DAGGERY  l^YPE   OF  FOETALKRAPHY.          73 

there  a  moment  longer,  I  reckon  I  should  have  murdered 
somebody  in  a  moment  of  Emotional  Insanity." 

The  Reverend  Octavius  Simpson  makes  him  unclose  his 
clenched  fist,  in  which  there  appears  to  be  one  or  two  cloves, 
and  then  says :  "I  am  shocked  to  hear  this,  Mr.  Pendragon. 
As  you  have  no  political  influence,  and  have  never  shot  a 
Tribune  man,*  neither  New  York  law  nor  society  would  al- 
low you  to  commit  murder  with  impunity.  I  regret,  too,  to 
see  that  you  have  been  drinking,  and  would  advise  you  to 
try  a  chapter  from  one  of  Professor  De  Mine's  novels,  as  a 
mild  emetic,  before  retiring.  After  that,  two  or  three  sen- 
tences from  one  of  Mr.  George  Ticknor  Curtis's  Constitu- 
tional essays  will  ensure  sleep  to  you  for  the  remainder  of 
the  night." 

Returning  the  unspeakably  thankful  pressure  of  the  grate- 
ful young  man's  hand,  the  Gospeller  goes  thoughtfully  down 
stairs,  where  he  is  just  in  time  to  answer  the  excited  ring  of 
Mr.  Bumstead. 

"  Dear  me,  Mr.  Bumstead ! "  is  his  first  exclamation, 
"  what's  that  you've  got  on  your  head  ?  " 

"  Perspiration,  sir,"  cries  Bumstead,  who,  in  his  agitation, 
is  still  ringing  the  bell.  "  We've  nearly  had  a  murder  to- 
night, and  I've  come  around  to  offer  you  my  umbrella  for 
your  own  protection." 

*  A  "  Tribune  man  "  had  been  slain,  recently,  by  a  lady's  husband,  and  the  slayer 
pronounced  "  Not  Guilty"  by  a  jury  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 


74         A  DAGGERY  TYPE   OF  FOETALKRAPHY. 

"  Umbrella  ! "  echoes  Mr.  Simpson,  "  why,  really,  I  don't 
see  how  —  " 

"Open  it  on  him  suddenly  when  he  makes  a  pass  at 
you,"  interrupts  Mr.  Bumstead,  thrusting  the  alpaca  weapon 
upon  him.  "  I'll  send  for  it  in  the  morning." 

The  Gospeller  stands  confounded  in  his  own  doorway,  with 
the  defence  thus  strangely  secured  in  his  hand ;  and,  look- 
ing up  the  moonlighted  road,  sees  Mr.  Bumstead,  in  the  sun- 
bonnet,  leaping  high,  at  short  intervals,  over  the  numerous 
adders  and  cobras  on  his  homeward  way,  like  a  thorough- 
bred hurdle-racer. 


BALKS  IN  A  BRUSH.  75 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BALKS    IN   A   BRWSH. 

FLORA,  having  no  relations  in  the  world  that  she  knew  of, 
had,  ever  since  her  seventh  new  bonnet,  known  no  other 
home  than  Macassar  Female  College,  in  the  Aims-House, 
and  regarded  Miss  Carowthers  as  her  mother-in-lore.  Her 
memory  of  her  own  mother  was  of  a  lady-like  person  who 
had  swiftly  waisted  away  in  the  effort  to  be  always  taken  for 
her  own  daughter,  and  was,  one  day,  brought  down-stairs,  by 
her  husband,  in  two  pieces,  from  tight  lacing.  The  sad  sep- 
aration (taking  place  just  before  a  party  of  pleasure),  had 
driven  Flora's  father  into  a  frenzy  of  grief  for  his  better 
halves ;  which  was  augmented  to  brain  fever  by  Mr.  Schenck, 
who,  having  given  a  Boreal  policy  to  deceased,  felt  it  his 
duty  to  talk  gloomily  about  wives  who  sometimes  died  apart 
after  receiving  unmerited  cuts  from  their  husbands,  and  to 
suggest  a  compromise  of  ten  per  cent,  upon  the  amount  of 
the  policy,  as  a  much  more  cheerful  settlement  than  a  coro- 
ner's inquest.  Flora's  betrothal  had  grown  out  of  the  sooth- 
ing of  Mr.  Potts' s  last  year  of  mental  disorder  by  Mr.  Drood, 
an  old  partner  in  the  grocery  business,  who,  too,  was  a  wid- 
ower from  his  wife's  use  of  arsenic  and  lead  for  her  complex- 


70  BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH. 

ion.  The  two  bereaved  friends,  after  comparing  tears  and 
looking  mournfully  at  each  other's  tongues,  had  talked  them- 
selves to  death  over  the  fluctuations  in  sugar ;  willing  their 
respective  children  to  marry  in  future  for  the  sake  of  keep- 
ing up  the  controversy. 

From  the  Flowerpot's  first  arrival  at  the  Aims-House,  her 
new  things,  engagement  to  be  married,  and  stock  of  choco- 
late caramels,  had  won  the  deepest  affections  of  her  teach- 
ers and  schoolmates  ;  and,  on  the  morning  after  the  section- 
al dispute  between  Edwin  and  Montgomery,  when  one  of 
the  young  ladies  had  heard  of  it  as  a  profound  secret,  no 
pains  were  spared  by  the  whole  tender-hearted  school  to 
make  her  believe  that  neither  of  the  young  men  was  entire- 
ly given  up  yet  by  the  consulting  physicians.  It  was  whis- 
pered, indeed,  that  a  knife  or  two  might  have  passed,  and 
two  or  three  guns  been  exchanged ;  but  she  was  not  to  be 
at  all  worried,  for  persons  had  been  known  to  get  well  with 
the  tops  of  their  heads  off. 

At  an  early  hour,  however,  Miss  Pendragon  had  paid  a 
visit  to  her  brother,  in  Gospeller's  Gulch  ;  and,  coming  back 
with  the  intelligence,  that,  while  he  had  been  stabbed  to  the 
heart,  it  was  chiefly  by  cruel  insinuations  and  an  umbrella, 
was  enabled  to  assure  Miss  Carowthers,  in  confidence,  that 
nothing  eligible  for  publication  in  the  New  York  Sun  had 
really  occurred.  Thus,  when  the  legal  conqueror  of  Breachy 
Mr.  Blodgett  entered  that  principal  recitation-room  of  the 


BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH.  77 

Macassar,  formally  known  as  the  Cackleorium,  she  had  no 
difficulty  in  explaining  away  the  panic. 

She  said  that  "  Unfounded  Rumor,  Ladies,  is,  we  all  know, 
a  descriptive  phrase  applied  by  the  Associated  Press  to  all 
important  foreign  news  procured  a  week  or  two  in  advance 
of  its  own  similar  European  advices,  by  the  Press  Associa- 
tion. We  perceive  then,  Ladies  (Miss  Jenkins  will  be  good 
enough  to  stop  scratching  her  nose  while  I  am  talking),  that 
Unfounded  Rumor  sometimes  means  —  hem !  — 

'The  Associated  Press 
In  bitter  distress." 

In  Bumsteadville,  however,  it  has  a  signification  more  like 
what  we  should  give  it  in  relation  to  a  statement  that  Sena- 
tor Sumner  had  delivered  a  Latin  quotation  without  a  speech 
selected  for  it.  In  this  sense,  Ladies  (Miss  Parkinson  can 
scarcely  be  aware  of  how  much  cotton  stocking  can  be  seen 
when  she  lolls  so),  the  Unfounded  Rumor  concerning  two 
gentlemen  of  different  political  views  in  this  county  was  not 
correct  (Miss  Babcock  will  learn  four  chapters  in  Chroni- 
cles by  heart  to-night,  for  making  a  handkerchief  into  a 
baby),  as  proper  inquiries  have  assured  us  that  no  more 
blood  was  shed  than  if  the  parties  to  the  strife  had  been  a 
Canadian  and  a  Fenian.  We  will,  therefore,  drop  the  sub- 
ject, and  enter  at  once  upon  the  flowery  path  of  the  first 
lesson  in  algebra." 

This  explanation  destroyed  all  the  interest  of  a  majority 
of  the  young  ladies,  who  had  anticipated  a  horridly  delight- 


78  BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH. 

ful  duel,  at  least ;  but  Flora  was  slightly  hysterical  about  it, 
even  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  it  was  announced  that  her 
guardian  had  come  to  see  her. 

Mr.  Dibble,*  of  Gowanus,  had  been  selected  for  his  trust 
on  account  of  his  pre-eminent  goodness,  which,  as  seems  to 
be  invariably  the  case,  was  associated  with  an  absence  of 
personal  beauty  trenching  upon  the  scarecrow.  Possibly  an 
excess  of  strong  and  disproportionate  carving  in  nose,  mouth, 
and  chin,  accompanied  by  weak  eyes  and  unexpectedness 
of  forehead,  may  tend  to  make  the  Evil  One  but  languid  in 
his  desire  for  the  capture  of  its  human  exemplar.  This  may 
help  account  for  the  otherwise  rather  curious  coincidence  of 
frightful  physiognomy  and  preternatural  goodness  in  this 
world  of  sinful  beauties.  Under  such  a  theory,  Mr.  Dibble's 
easy  means  of  frightening  the  Arch-Tempter  into  immediate 
flight,  and  keeping  himself  free  from  all  possible  incitement 
to  be  anything  but  good,  were  a  face,  head  and  neck  shaped 
not  unlike  an  old-fashioned  water-pitcher,  and  a  form  sug- 
gestive of  an  obese  lobster  balancing  on  an  upright  horse- 
shoe. His  nose  was  too  high  up  ;  his  mouth  and  chin  bulged 
too  tremendously ;  his  neck  inside  a  whole  mainsail  of  shirt- 
collar  was  too  much  fluted,  and  his  eyes  were  as  much  too 
small  and  oyster-like  as  his  ears  were  too  large  and  horny. 

Mr.  Dibble  found  his  ward  in  Miss  Carowthers'  own  pri- 
vate room,  from  which  even  the  government  mails  were  gen- 
erally excluded ;  and,  after  saluting  both  ladies,  and  politely 

*  In  the  original,  Mr.  Grewgieus,  a  lawyer,  of  London. 


BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH.  79' 

desiring  the  elder  to  remain  present,  in  order  to  be  sure  that 
his  conversation  was  strictly  moral,  the  monstrous  old  gen- 
tleman pulled  a  memorandum  book  from  his  pocket  and 
addressed  himself  to  Flora. 

"  I  am  a  square  man  myself,  dear  kissling,"  he  said,  with 
much  double  chin  in  his  manner,  "and  like  to  do  every- 
thing on  the  square.  I  am  now  'interviewing'  you,  and 
shall  make  notes  of  your  answers,  though  not  necessarily  for 
publication.  First:  is  your  health  satisfactory?" 

Miss  Potts  admitted  that,  excepting  occasional  attacks  of 
insatiable  longing  for  True  Sympathy,  chiefly  produced  by 
over-eating  of  pickles  and  slate-pencils  to  avert  excessive 
plumpness,  she  could  generally  take  pie  twice  without  ex- 
periencing a  subsequent  reactionary  tendency  to  piety  and 
gloomy  presentiments. 

"  Second :  is  your  allowance  of  pin-money  sufficient  to 
keep  you  in  cold  cream,  Berlin  wool,  and  other  necessaries 
of  life  ?  " 

The  Flowerpot  confessed  that  she  had  now  and  then 
wished  herself  able  to  buy  a  church  and  a  velvet  dressing- 
gown,  (lined  with  cherry,)  for  a  young  clergyman  with  the 
consumption  and  side-whiskers ;  but,  under  common  cir- 
cumstances, her  allowance  was  enough  to  procure  all  abso- 
lutely requisite  Edging  without  running  her  into  debt,  and 
still  leave  sufficient  to  buy  materials  for  any  reasonable  al- 
tar-cloth. 

"And  now,  my  dear,"  said   Mr.  Dibble,  evidently  glad 


80  BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH. 

that  all  the  more  important  and  serious  part  of  the  interview 
was  over,  "we  come  to  the  subject  of  your  marriage.  Mr. 
Edwin  has  seen  you  here,  occasionally,  I  suppose,  and  you 
may  possibly  like  him  well  enough  to  accept  him  as  a  hus- 
band, if  not  as  a  friend  ! " 

"  He's  such  a  perfectly  absurd  creature  that  I  can't  help 
liking  him,"  returned  Flora,  gravely ;  "  but  I  am  not  certain 
that  my  utterly  ridiculous  deeper  woman's  love  is  entirely 
satisfied  with  thec  shape  of  his  nose." 

"  That'll  be  mostly  hidden  by  his  whiskers,  when  they 
grow,"  observed  her  guardian. 

"  I  hope  they'll  be  bushy,  with  a  frizzle  at  the  ends  and  a 
bald  place  for  his  chin,"  said  the  young  girl,  reflectively; 
then  suddenly  asked :  "  If  we  shouldn't  be  married,  would 
either  of  us  have  to  pay  anything?" 

"I  should  say  not,"  answered  Mr.  Dibble,  " unless  you 
sued  him  for  breach."  (Here  Miss  Carowthers  was  heard 
to  murmur  "  Blodgett,"  and  hastily  took  an  anti-nervous  pill.) 
"  I  should  say  that  your  respective  parents  wished  you  to 
marry  only  in  case  you  should  see  no  other  persons  whose 
noses  you  liked  better.  As  on  this  coming  Christmas  you 
will  be  within  a  few  months  of  your  marriage,  I  have  brought 
your  father's  will  with  me,  with  the  intention  of  depositing 
it  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Edwin's  trustee,  Mr.  Bumstead  — " 

"  Oh,  leave  it  with  Eddy,  if  you'll  please  to  be  so  ridicu- 
lously kind,"  interrupted  Flora.  "Mr.  Bumstead  would 


BALKS  IN  A   BRUSH.  81 

certainly  insist  upon  it  that  there  were  two  wills  instead  of 
one :  and  that  would  be  so  absurd." 

"  Well,  well,"  assented  Mr.  Dibble,  rising  to  go,  "  I'm  a 
perfectly  square  man,  even  when  I'm  looking  round,  and 
will  do  as  you  wish.  As  a  slight  memento  of  my  really 
charming  visit  here,  might  I  humbly  petition  yonder  lady  to 
remit  any  little  penalty  that  may  happen  to  be  in  force  just 
now  against  any  lovely  student  of  the  College  for  eating 
preserves  in  bed,  or  writing  notes  to  the  Italian  music  teach- 
er, who  is  already  married,  or  anything  of  that  kind?  " 

"  Flora,"  said  Miss  Carowthers,  graciously,  "  you  may  tell 
Miss  Babcock,  that,  in  consequence  of  your  guardian's  re- 
quest, she  will  be  excused  from  studying  her  Bible  as  a  pun- 
ishment." 

After  due  acknowledgment  of  this  favor,  the  good  Mr. 
Dibble  made  his  farewell  bow,  and  went  forth  to  the  turn- 
pike. Following  that  high  road,  he  presently  found  himself 
near  the  side-door  of  the  Ritualistic  Church  of  Saint  Cow's, 
and,  while  curiously  watching  the  minor  canons  who  were 
carrying  in  some  fireworks  to  be  used  in  the  next  day's  ser- 
vice, was  confronted  by  Mr.  Bumstead  just  coming  out.. 

"  Let  me  see  you  home,"  said  Mr.  Bumstead,  hastily  hold- 
ing out  an  arm.  "  I'll  tell  the  family  it's  only  vertigo." 

"  Why,  nothing  is  the  matter  with  me,"  pleaded  Mr.  Dib- 
ble. "  I've  only  been  having  a  talk  with  my  ward." 

"I'll  bet  cloves  for  two  that  she  didn't  say  she  preferred 
4* 


82  BALKS  IN  A  BRUSH. 

me  to  Ned,"  insinuated  Mr.  Bumstead,  breathing  audibly 
through  his  nose. 

"  Then  you'll  not  lose,"  was  the  answer ;  "for  she  did  not 
tell  me  whom  she  preferred  to  the  one  she  wishes  to  marry. 
They  never  do ;  and  sometimes  it  is  only  discovered  in  In- 
diana. You  and  'I  surrender  our  respective  guardianships 
on  Christmas,  Mr.  Bumstead ;  until  when  good-bye ;  and  be 
early  marriage  their  lot !  * 

"  Be  early  Divorce  their  lot ! "  said  Bumstead,  thrusting 
his  book  of  organ-music  so  far  under  his  coat-flap  that  it 
stuck  out  at  the  back  like  a  curvature  of  the  spine. 

"  I  said  marriage,"  cried  Mr.  Dibble,  looking  back. 

"I  said  Divorce,"  retorted  Mr.  Bumstead,  thoughtfully 
eating  a  clove.  "  Don't  one  generally  involve  the  other  ?  " 


OILING   THE   WHEELS.  83 


CHAPTER  X. 

OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

No  husband  who  has  ever  properly  studied  his  mother- 
in-law  can  fail  to  be  aware,  that  woman's  perception  of  heart- 
less villany  and  evidences  of  intoxication  in  man  is  often  of 
that  curiously  fine  order  of  vision  which  rather  exceeds  the 
best  efforts  of  ordinary  microscopes,  and  subjects  the  aver- 
age human  mind  to  considerable  astonishment.  The  per- 
fect ease  with  which  she  can  detect  murderous  proclivities, 
Mormon  instincts,  and  addiction  to  maddening  liquors,  in  a 
daughter's  husband  —  who,  to  the  most  searching  inspection 
of  everybody  else,  appears  the  most  watery,  hen-pecked, 
and  generally  intimidated  young  man  of  his  age  —  is  one  of 
those  common  illustrations  of  the  infallible  acuteness  of  fem- 
inine judgment  which  are  doing  more  and  more,  every  day, 
to  establish  the  positive  necessity  of  woman's  superior  insight 
and  natural  dispassionate  fairness  of  mind,  for  the  future 
wisest  exercise  of  the  elective  franchise  and  most  just  ad- 
ministration of  the  highest  judicial  office.  It  may  be  said 
that  the  mother-in-law  is  the  highest  development  of  the  su- 
pernaturally  perceptive  and  positive  woman,  since  she  usually 
has  superior  opportunities  to  study  man  in  all  the  stages 


84:  OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

from  marriage  to  madness ;  but  with  her  whole  sex,  particu- 
larly after  certain  sour  turns  in  life,  inheres  an  alertness  of 
observation  as  to  the  incredible  viciousness  of  masculine 
character,  which  nothing  less  than  a  bit  of  flattery  or  a  hap- 
pily equivocal  reflection  upon  some  rival  sister  can  either 
divert  or  mislead  for  a  moment. 

"  Now  don't  you  really  think,  Oldy,"  said  Gospeller  Simp- 
son to  his  mother,  as  he  sat  watching  her  fabrication  of  an 
immense  stocking  for  the  poor,  "that  Hopeless  Inebriate 
and  Midnight  Assassin  are  a  rather  too  severe  characteriza- 
tion of  my  pupil,  Mr.  Montgomery  Pendragon  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not,  Octave,"  replied  the  excellent  old  nut- 
cracker of  a  lady,  who  was  making  the  charity  stocking  as 
nearly  in  the  shape  of  a  hatchet  as  possible.  "When  a 
young  man  of  rebel  sentiments  spends  all  his  nights  in  drink- 
ing lemon  teas,  and  trying  to  spoil  other  young  men's  clothes 
in  throwing  such  teas  at  them,  and  is  only  to  be  put  down 
by  umbrellas,  and  comes  to  his  homes  with  cloves  in  his 
clenched  fists,  and  has  headaches  on  the  following  days,  he's 
on  his  way  either  to  political  office  or  the  gallows." 

"  But  he  hasn't  done  so  at  all  with  s's  to  it,"  exclaimed 
the  Reverend  Octavius,  exasperated  by  so  many  plurals. 
11  He  did  it  but  once,  and  then  he  was  strongly  provoked. 
Edwin  mentioned  the  sharpness  of  his  sister's  nose  to  him, 
and  reflected  casually  upon  the  late  well-known  Southern 
Confederacy." 

"  Don't  tell  me  !"  reasoned  the  fine  old  lady,  holding  up 


OILING   THE    WHEELS.  85 

the  stocking  by  its  handle  to  see  how  much  longer  it  must 
be  to  reach  the  wearer's  waist.  "I'm  afraid  you're  a  cop- 
perhead, Octave." 

"  How  you  do  cackle,  Oldy  ! "  said  her  son,  who  was  very 
proud  of  her  when  she  kept  still.  "  You  can't  see  anything 
good  in  Montgomery,  because,  after  the  first  seven  or  eight 
breakfasts  with  us,  he  said  he  was  afraid  that  so  many  fish- 
balls  would  make  his  head  swim." 

"  My  child,"  returned  the  old  lady,  thrusting  an  arm  so 
far  into  the  charity  stocking  that  she  seemed  to  have  the 
wrong  kind  of  blue  worsted  limb  growing  from  one  of  her 
shoulders,  "  I  have  judged  this  dissipated  young  man  exact- 
ly as  though  he  were  my  own  son-in-law,  and  know  that  he 
possesses  an  incendiary  disposition.  After  the  fireworks  at 
Saint  Cow's  Church,  on  Saint  Vitus's  Day,  that  devoted  Rit- 
ualistic Christian,  Mr.  Bumstead,  came  up  to  me  in  the 
porch,  with  his  eyes  nearly  closed,  on  account  of  the  solemn- 
ity of  the  occasion,  and  began  feeling  around  my  neck  with 
both  his  hands.  When  I  asked  him  to  explain,  he  said  that 
he  only  wanted  to  see  whether  my  throat  was  cut  yet,  as  he 
had  heard  that  we  kept  a  Southern  murderer  at  home.  He 
was  still  very  pale  at  what  had  taken  place  in  his  room  over 
night,  when  he  finally  said  '  Good-day,  ladies,'  to  me." 

"  Montgomery  is  certainly  attached  to  me,  at  any  rate," 
murmured  the  Gospeller,  reflectively,  "  and  has  made  no  at- 
tempt upon  my  life." 

"That's  because  his   sister  restrains  him,"    asserted  the 


86  OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

mother,  with  a  fond  look.  "I  overheard  her  telling  him, 
when  she  was  at  dinner  here  one  day,  that  you  might  be 
taken  for  a  Southerner,  if  you  only  wore  a  dress-coat  all  the 
time  and  were  heavily  mortgaged.  Withdraw  her  influence, 
and  the  desperate  young  man  would  tar  and  feather  us  all  in 
our  beds  some  night." 

Falling  silent  after  this  unanswerable  proof  of  Mr.  Pen- 
dragon's  guilt,  Mr.  Simpson  mused  upon  as  much  of  the 
dear  old  nut-cracker  as  was  not  hidden  by  the  vast  charity 
stocking.  In  her  ruffled  cap,  false  front,  and  spectacles,  she 
was  so  exactly  the  figure  one  might  picture  Mr.  John  Stuart 
Mill  to  be,  after  reading  his  latest  literary  knitting  on  the 
Revolting  Injustice  of  Masculine  Society,  that  the  Gospeller 
of  Saint  Cow's  could  not  help  feeling  how  perfectly  useless 
it  was  to  expect  her  to  think  herself  capable  of  error. 

As,  whenever  the  Reverend  Octavius  gave  indication  of  a 
capacity  for  speechless  thoughtfulness,  his  benignant  mother 
at  once  concluded  that  he  needed  an  anti-bilious  pill,  she 
now  made  all  haste  to  the  cupboard  to  procure  that  imita- 
tion-vegetable and  a  glass  of  water.  It  was  the  neatest,  best- 
stored  Ritualistic  cupboard  in  Bumsteadville.  Above  it 
hung  a  portrait  of  the  Pope,  from  which  the  grand  old  Apos- 
tolic son  of  an  infallible  dogma  looked  knowingly  down,  as 
though  with  the  contents  of  that  cupboard  he  could  get-up 
such  a  schema  as  would  be  palatable  to  the  most  sceptical 
Bishop  in  all  the  (Ecumenical  Council,  and  of  which  lie 
might  justly  say  :  Whosoever  dare  think  that  he  ever  tasted 


OILING   THE    WHEELS.  87 

a  better  schema,  or  ever  dreamed  in  his  deepest  conscious- 
ness that  a  better  could  be  made,  let  him  be  anathema  mar- 
anatha !  A  most  rakish  looking  wooden  button,  noiselessly 
stealthy  and  sly,  gave  entrance  to  this  treasury  of  dainties; 
and  then  what  a  rare  array  of  disintegrated  meals  intoxicated 
the  vision  !  There  was  the  Athlete  of  the  Dairy,  commonly 
called  Fresh  Butter,  in  his  gay  yellow  jacket,  looking  wore 
to  the  knife.  There  was  turgid  old  Brown  Sugar,  who  had 
evidently  heard  the  advice,  go  to  the  ant,  thou  sluggard ! 
and,  mistaking  the  last  word  for  Sugared,  was  going  as 
deliberately  as  possible.  There  was  the  vivacious  Cheese, 
in  the  hour  of  its  mite,  clad  in  deep,  creamy,  golden  hue, 
with  delicate  traceries  of  mould,  like  fairy  cobwebs.  The 
Smoked  Beef,  and  Doughnuts,  as  being  more  sober  and  un- 
emotional features  of  the  pageant,  appeared  on  either  side 
the  remains  of  a  Cold  Chicken,  as  rendering  pathetic  tribute 
to  hoary  age ;  while  sturdy,  reliable  Hash  and  Fishballs  re- 
posed right  and  left  in  their  mottled  and  rich  brown  coats, 
with  a  kind  of  complacent  consciousness  of  having  been 
created  according  to  Mrs.  Glass's  standard  dictum,  First 
catch  your  Hair. 

Gospeller  Simpson,  by  natural  law,  alternated  from  this 
wonderful  cupboard,  very  regularly,  to  another,  or  sister  cup- 
board, also  presided  over  by  the  good  old  maternal  nut- 
cracker, wherein  the  energetic  pill  lived  in  its  little  paste- 
board house  next  door  to  the  crystal  palace  of  smooth,  in- 
sinuating castor  oil ;  and  passionate  fiery  essence  of  pepper- 


88  OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

mint  grew  hot  with  indignation  at  the  proximity  of  plebeian 
rhubarb  and  squills.  In  the  present  case  he  quietly  took  his 
anti-bilious  globule  :  which,  besides  being  a  step  in  the  di- 
rection of  removing  a  pimple  from  his  chin,  was  also  intend- 
ed as  a  kind  of  medical  preparation  for  his  coming  services 
in  the  Ritualistic  Church,  where  at  a  certain  part  of  the 
ceremonies,  he  was  to  stand  on  his  head  before  the  Banner 
of  St.  Alban  and  balance  Roman  candles  on  his  uplifted 
feet.  When  the  day  had  nearly  passed,  and  the  Vesper 
hour  for  those  services  arrived,  he  performed  them  with  all 
the  less  rush  of  blood  to  the  head  for  being  thus  prepared  ; 
yet  there  was  still  a  slight  sensation  of  congestion,  and,  to 
get  rid  of  this,  when  he  stepped  forth  from  Saint  Cow's  in 
the  twilight,  it  was  to  take  an  evening  stroll  along  the  shore 
of  Bumsteadville  pond. 

The  Pond  at  Bumsteadville  is  sufficiently  near  the  turn- 
pike to  be  readily  reached  from  the  latter,  and,  if  mentioned 
in  the  advertisement  of  a  summer  boarding-house,  would 
be  called  Lake  Buckingham,  on  account  of  the  fashionable 
ducks  resorting  thither  for  bathing  and  flirtation  in  the  sea- 
son. When  July's  sun  turns  its  tranquil  mirror  to  hues  of 
amber  and  gold,  the  slender  mosquito  sings  Hum,  sweet 
Hum,  along  its  margin  ;  and  when  Autumn  hangs  his  liv- 
ery of  motley  on  the  trees,  the  glassy  surface  breathes  out 
a  mist  wherefrom  arises  a  spectre,  with  one  hand  of  ice  and 
the  other  of  flame,  to  scatter  Chills  and  Fever.  Strolling 
beside  this  picturesque  watering-place  in  the  dusk,  the  Gos- 


OILING    THE    WHEELS.  89 

peller  suddenly  caught  the  clatter  of  a  female  voice,  and,  in 
a  moment,  came  face  to  face  with  Montgomery  and  Magno- 
lia Pendragon. 

"A  cold  and  frog-like  place,  this,  for  a  lady's  walk,  Miss 
Pendragon,"  he  said,  hastily  swallowing  a  bronchial  troche 
to  neutralize  the  damp  air  admitted  in  speaking.  "  I  hope 
you  have  on  your  overshoes." 

"  My  sister  brings  me  here,"  explained  the  brother,  "  so 
that  her  constant  talking  to  me  may  not  cause  other  people's 
heads  to  pain  them." 

"  I  believe,"  continued  the  Reverend  Octavius,  walking 
slowly  on  with  them,  "  I  believe,  Mr.  Pendragon,  your  sister 
finds  out  from  you  everything  that  you  learn,  or  say,  or 
do?" 

"Everything,"  assented  the  young  man,  who  seemed 
greatly  exhausted.  "  She  averages  one  question  a  minute." 

"Consequently,"  went  on  Mr.  Simpson,  "  she  knows  that 
I  have  advised  you  to  make  some  kind  of  apology  to  Edwin 
Drood,  for  the  editorial  remarks  passing  between  you  on  a 
certain  important  occasion  ?  "  He  looked  at  the  sister  as 
he  spoke,  and  took  that  opportunity  to  quickly  swallow  a 
quinine  powder  as  a  protection  from  the  chills. 

"My  brother,  sir,"  said  Magnolia,  "because,  like  the 
Lesbian  Alcaeus,  fighting  for  the  liberty  of  his  native 
Mitylene,  he  has  sympathized  with  his  native  South,  finds 
himself  treated  by  Mr.  Drood  with  a  lack  of  magnanimity  of 


00  OILING   THE   WHEELS. 

which  even  the  renegade  Pittacus  would  have  been 
ashamed." 

"  But  even  at  that,"  returned  the  Gospeller,  much  educa- 
ted by  her  remark,  "would  it  not  be  better  for  us  all,  to 
have  this  hapless  misunderstanding  manfully  explained  away, 
and  are  conciliation  achieved  ?  " 

"Did  ^Eschylus  explain  to  the  Areopagus,  after  he  had 
been  unjustly  abused?"  asked  the  young  female  student, 
eagerjy.  "  Or  did  he,  rather,  nobly  prefer  to  remain  silent, 
even  until  Ameinias  reminded  his  prejudiced  Yankee  judges 
that  he  had  fought  at  Salamis  ?  " 

"Dear  me,"  ejaculated  the  Gospeller,  gasping,  "I  only 
meant  - — " 

"  I  defend  my  brother,"  continued  Magnolia,  passionately, 
"  as  in  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  Electra  defends  Orestes  ; 
and  even  if  he  has  no  Pylades,  he  shall  still  be  not  without 
a  friend  in  the  habitation  of  the  Pylopidoe." 

"  Upon  my  soul ! "  murmured  the  Reverend  Mr.  Simp- 
son, "  this  is  a  dreadful  state  of  things." 

"  I  may  as  well  confess  to  you,  sir,"  said  Montgomery, 
temporarily  removing  his  fingers  from  his  ears,  "  that  I  ad- 
mire Miss  Potts  as  much  as  I'm  down  on  Drood." 

"  He  admires  her,"  struck  in  his  sister,  "  as  Alcman,  of 
Sardis,  admired  Megalostrata ;  and,  in  her  betrothal  to  a 
Yankee,  sees  another  Sappho  matrimonially  sacrificed  to  an- 
other Cercolas  of  Andros." 

"Mr.  Pendragon,"  panted  the  Gospeller,  "you  must  give 


OILING ^THE   WHEELS.  91 

up  this  infatuation.  The  Flowerpot  is  engaged  to  another, 
and  you  have  no  business  to  express  such  sentiments  for  an- 
other's bride  until  after  she  is  married.  Eloquently  as  your 
sister  — " 

"  I  pretend  to  be  no  Myrtis,  in  genius,"  continued  Mag- 
nolia, humbly.  "  I  am  not  an  Erinna,  an  Amite,  a  Praxilla, 
or  a  Nossis ;  but  all  that  is  intellectually  repugnant  within 
me  is  stirred  by  this  treatment  of  my  brother,  who  is  no 
Philodemus  to  find  in  Mr.  Drood  his  Piso ;  and  sometimes 
I  feel  as  though,  like  another  Simonides,  I  could  fly  with 
him  from  this  inhospitable  Northern  house  of  Scopas,  to  the 
refuge  of  some  more  generous  Dioscuri.  In  the  present 
macrocosm,  to  which  we  have  come  from  our  former  home's 
microcosm,  my  brother  is  persistently  maligned,  even  by  Mr. 
Bumstead,.who  may  yet,  if  I  am  any  judge,  meet  the  fate 
of  Anacreon,  as  recorded  by  Suidas  ;  though,  in  his  case, 
the  choking  will  not  be  accompanied  by  a  grape-stone,  but 
by  a  clove." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Reverend  Octavius,  in  a  faint  voice, 
"  I  shall  expect  you  to  at  least  meet  Edwin  Drood  half-way 
in  a  reconciliation,  Mr.  Pendragon,  for  your  own  sake.  I 
will  see  that  he  makes  the  first  advance." 

"  Generous  and  dear  tutor  ! "  exclaimed  Montgomery,  "  I 
will  do  anything,  with  you  for  my  guide." 

"  Follow  your  guide  penitently,  brother,"  cried  his  sister, 
pathetically,  "  and  you  will  find  in  him  a  relenting  Polynices. 
Whatever  we  may  feel  towards  others,"  she  added,  catching 


92  OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

and  kissing  the  overpowered  Gospeller's  hand,  as  they  parted 
company,  "you  shall  ever  be  our  chosen,  trusted,  and  only 
Psychopompos."  * 

Holding  his  throbbing  head  with  both  his  hands,  as  he 
walked  feebly  homeward,  the  worn-out  Gospeller  noticed  a 
light  streaming  from  Mr.  Bumstead's  window  ;  and,  inspired 
by  a  sudden  impulse,  entered  the  boarding-house  and 
ascended  straightway  to  the  Ritualistic  organist's  rooms. 
Bumstead  was  asleep  upon  the  rug  before  ^he  fire,  with  his 
faithful  umbrella  under  his  arm,  when  Mr.  Simpson,  after 
vainly  knocking,  opened  the  door ;  and  never  could  the 
Gospeller  forget  how,  upon  being  addressed,  the  sleeper 
started  wildly  up,  made  a  futile  pass  at  him  with  the  um- 
brella, took  a  prolonged  and  staring  drink  from  a  pitcher  of 
water  on  the  table,  and  hurriedly  ate  a  number  of  cloves  from 
a  saucer  near  an  empty  lemon-tea  goblet  over  the  mantel. 

"  Why,  it's  only  I,"  explained  the  Reverend  Octavius, 
rather  alarmed  by  the  glare  with  which  he  was  regarded. 

"  Sit  down,  my  friends,"  said  Mr.  Bumstead,  huskily ; 
himself  taking  a  seat  upon  a  coal-scuttle  near  at  hand,  with 
considerable  violence.  "  I'm  glad  you  aroused  me  from  a 
dreadful  dream  of  reptiles.  I  sh'pose  you  want  me  to  see- 
you  home,  sir  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  Gospeller's  answer.     "In  fact,  Mr. 


*  The  Adapter  refers  confidently  to  any  Southern  female  novel  of  the  period  for 
proof,  that  sentimental  Magnolian  school-girls  always  talk,  or  write,  everything  educa- 
tional, except  good  English,  when  conferring  with  their  deafened  masculine  friends. 


OILING    THE    WHEELS.  '    93 

Bumstead,  I  am  anxious  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation 
between  these  two  young  men.  Let  us  have  peace." 

"  If  you  want  to  let's  have  peash,"  observed  the  other, 
rather  vaguely,  "why  don't  you  go  fishing  whenever  there's 
any  fighting  talk,  shir  !  Such  a  course  is  not,  you'll  Grant, 
unpresidented." 

"I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  waiving  the  suggestion, 
"  that  you  entertain  no  favorable  opinion  of  young  Pendra- 
gon!" 

Reaching  to  a  book  on  the  table,  and,  after  various  airy 
failures,  laying  hold  upon  it,  Mr.  Bumstead  answered : 
"This  is  my  diary,  gentlemen;  to  be  presented  to  Mrs. 
Stowe,  when  I'm  no  more,  for  a  memoir.  You,  being  two 
clergymen,  wouldn't  care  to  read  it.  Here's  my  entry  on 
Ifche  night  of  the  caucus  in  this  room.  Lish'n  now  :  '  Half- 
pash  Ten. —  Considering  the  Democratic  sentiments  of  the 
Montgomeries  Pendragons,  and  their  evident  disinclination 
to  vote  the  Republican  Ticket,  I  b'lieve  them  capable  of  any 
crime.  If  they  should  kill  my  two  nephews,  it  would  be  no 
hie- straordinary  sh' prise.  Have  just  been  in  to  look  at  my 
nephews  asleep,  to  make  sure  that  the  Pendragons  have 
put  no  snakes  in  their  bed.'  Thash  is  one  entry,"  continued 
Mr.  Bumstead,  momentarily  pausing  to  make  a  blow  with 
the  fire-shovel  at  some  imaginary  creature  crawling  across 
the  rug.  "Here's  another,  written  next  morning  after 
cloves :  '  My  nephews  have  gone  to  New  York  together  this 
A.  M.  They  laughed  when  I  cautioned  them  against  the 


94  OILING    THE    WHEELS. 

Montgomeries,  and  said  they  didn't  see  it.  I  am  still  very 
uneasy,  however,  and  have  hurriedly  pulled  off  my  boots  to 
kill  the  reptiles  in  them.  How's  this  for  high?'"  Mr. 
Bumstead  fell  into  a  doze  for  an  instant,  and  then  added  : 
"I  see  the  name  'J.  Bumstead'  signed  to  this.  Who'sh 
he  ?  —  Oh  !  i'mushbe  myself." 

"Well,  well,"  commented  the  slightly  astonished  Gos- 
peller, "  whatever  may  be  your  private  opinions,  I  ask  you, 
as  a  matter  of  evident  public  propriety,  and  for  the  good  of 
everybody,  to  soften  Mr.  Drood  toward  Mr.  Pendragon,  as 
I  have  already  softened  Mr.  Pendragon  toward  Mr.  Drood. 
You  and  I  must  put  an  end  to  this  foolish  quarrel." 

"  Thashis  so,"  said  Mr.  Bumstead,  with  sudden  assent, 
laboriously  gaining  his  feet  to  bid  his  guest  good-bye,  and 
rather  absent-mindedly  opening  the  umbrella  over  his  head 
as  he  fumbled  for  the  knob  of  the  door.  "  You  and  I 
musht  reconcile  these  four  young  men.  Gooright,  shir. 
Take  a  little  soda-water  in  the  morning  and  you'll  be 
awright,  shir." 

On  the  third  day  after  this  interview,  Mr.  Bumstead 
waited  upon  Mr.  Simpson  with  the  following  note,  which, 
after  searching  agitatedly  for  it  in  his  hat  and  all  his  pockets, 
he  finally  found  up  one  of  his  sleeves  :  "  My  dear  JACK  :  —  I 
am  much  pleased  to  hear  of  your  conversation  about  me 
with  that  good  man  whom  you  call  '  the  Reverends  Mes- 
sieurs Simpson,'  and  shall  gladly  comply  with  his  wish  for  a 
make-up  between  Pendragon  and  myself.  Invite  Pendragon 


OILING    THE    WHEELS.  95 

to  dinner  on  Christmas  Eve,  when  only  we  three  shall  be 
together,  and  we'll  shake  hands.  Ever,  dear  clove-y  Jack, 
yours  truly,  Edwin  Drood." 

"  You  think  Mr.  Pendragon  will  accept,  then  ?  "  said  the 
Gospeller. 

Mr.  Bumstead  nodded  darkly,  shook  hands,  bowed  to  a 
large  arm-chair  for  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  retired  with  much 
stateliness. 


96  A  PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  PICTURE   AND   A   PARCEL. 

BEHIND  the  most  sample-room-y,  fire-insuranceish,  and 
express-wagonized  part  of  Broadway,  New  York,  yawns  a 
venerable  street  called  Nassau  ;  wherein  architecture  is  a 
monster  of  such  hideous  mien  that  to  be  hated  needs  but  to 
be  rented,  and  more  full-grown  men  stare  into  shoe-stores  and 
shirt-emporiums  without  buying  anything  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  world.  Near  the  lower  end  of  this  quaint  ave- 
nue rises  the  Post-Office,  sending  aloft  a  wooden  steeple 
which  is  the  coffin  of  a  dead  clock,  and  looking,  altogether, 
like  some  good  old-fashioned  country  church,  which,  having 
come  to  town  many  years  ago  to  see  its  city  cousins, 
and  been  discouraged  by  their  brown-stone  airs,  retired, 
much  demoralized,  into  a  shady  by-way,  and  there  fell  from 
grace  into  a  kind  of  dissipated  cross  between  Poor-Hotise 
and  railroad  depot.  To  reach  this  amazing  edifice  with  too 
much  haste  for  more  than  a  momentary  glimpse  of  its  har- 
rowing exterior,  and  to  get  away  from  it,  with  a  speed  as 
little  complimentary  to  the  charms  of  its  shadow,  are,  appar- 
ently, the  two  great  and  exclusive  objects  of  the  thousands 
swarming  down  and  up  the  narrow  street  all  through  a  day. 


A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  97 

Some  twenty  odd  boot-shops,  all  next-door-but-one  to  each 
other,  startlingly  alike  in  their  despondent  outer  appear- 
ances, and  uniformly  conducted  by  embittered  elderly  men 
of  savage  aspect  —  seem  to  sue  in  vain  from  year  to  year 
for  at  least  one  customer ;  and  as  many  other  melancholy 
dens  for  the  sale  of  exactly  the  things  no  one  but  a  madman 
would  want  to  bu/while  on  his  way  to  a  Post-Office,  or  from 
it,  appear  to  wait  as  hopelessly  for  the  first  purchaser. 
There  are,  too,  no  end  of  open-air  dealers  in  such  curious 
postal  incidentals  as  ghastly  apples,  insulting  neck-ties,  and 
impracticable  pocket-combs;  to  whom,  possibly,  an  un- 
wholesome errand  boy  may  be  seen  applying  for  a  bargain 
about  once  in  the  life-time  of  an  ordinary  habitue  of  the 
street,  but  whose  general  wares  were  never  see-n  selling  to 
the  extent  of  four  shillings  by  any  living  observer.  Still, 
with  an  affront  to  human  credulity  of  which  only  newspapers 
are  capable,  it  has  been  declared,  in  print,  that  there  are 
bootmakers  and  apple-women  of  Nassau  who  continually 
buy  choice  up-town  corner  lots  with  their'  profits ;  and,  if  it 
may  be  therefrom  inferred  that  the  other  trades  of  the  street 
do  as  incredibly  well,  it  were  wise,  perhaps,  to  be  further 
convinced  that  people  have  a  well-established  habit  of 
stealthily  laying  in  their  new  raiment,  fruit,  and  toilet  articles 
while  going  for  their  business-mails,  and  at  once  relinquish 
all  earthly  confidence  in  the  senses  obstinately  refuting  the 
theory. 

About  half-way  between  end   and  end  of  Nassau   street 
5 


98  A   PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL. 

stands  a  row  of  what  were  modest  dwelling-houses  in  the  re- 
mote days  when  the  city  was  under  the  rule  of  the  Ameri- 
cans, but  are  now  only  so  many  floors  of  law  offices.  Who 
owns  them  is  not  known ;  for  proprietors  of  real-estate  in 
this  extraordinary  highway  of  antiquity  are  never  mentioned 
in  public  like  owners  in  any  other  street ;  but  they  are 
shabby,  dreary,  hopeless-looking  old  piles,  suggestive  of  hav- 
ing, perhaps,  been  hurried  and  tumbled  through  musty  law- 
suits scores  of  times,  and  occupied  at  last  by  the  robber  Law 
itself  for  costs.  On  a  certain  dark,  foggy  afternoon  in  De- 
cember, one  of  the  seediest  of  the  fallen  brick  brotherhood 
presented  a  particularly  dingy  appearance,  as  the  gas-lights 
necessitated  by  the  premature  gloom  of  the  hour  gleamed 
dimly  through  a  blearing  window-pane  here  and  there.  The 
house  still  retained  the  narrow  street-door,  hall-way,  and  ab- 
rupt immediate  stairway  of  its  earlier  days ;  and  had,  too,  the 
old-style  goodly  single  brown  stone  for  a  "  stoop,"  along  the 
front  fall  of  which,  in  faded. white  block  letters,  as  though 
originally  done  with  a  stencil-plate,  appeared  the  strange  de- 
vice : 

S^T  — 1860  — X.* 

Whether  this  curious  legend  referred  to  the  sweets  or  bitters 
of  the  tenement's  various  experiences  :  whether  it  meant 
Subjected  To  1860  'Xecutions,  or  Sacrificed  To  1860  'Xecu- 
tors,  or  Sentenced  To  Wai t-e' en-Sixty  'Xigencies,  did  not 

*  In  the  original^."  J.  P.  T.  1747." 


A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  99 

bother  the  head  of  Mr.  Dibble,  who  came  in  from  Gowanus 
every  morning  to  occupy  his  law-office  upstairs,  and  was  sit- 
ting thoughtfully  therein,  before  a  grate  fire,  on  the  dull,  win- 
try afternoon  in  question. 

Severely  unostentatious  was  that  office,  with  its  two  ink- 
stained  desks,  shelves  of  lettered  deed-boxes,  glass  case  of 
law-books  in  sheep,  and  vellum-covered  reading-table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  Its  prompt  lesson  for  the  visitor  was  : 
You  are  now  in  the  office  of  an  old-school  Constitutional 
Lawyer,  Sir ;  and  if  you  want  an  Absolute  Divorce,  Ob- 
tained for  No  Cause,  in  Any  State ;  No  Publicity ;  No 
Charges ;  you  must  step  around  to  a  certain  newspaper 
sanctum  for  your  witnesses,  and  apply  to  some  other  legal 
practitioner.  In  this  establishment,  sir,  after  you  have  left 
your  measure  in  the  shape  of  a  retaining  fee,  we  fit  you  with 
a  suit  warranted  to  last  as  long  as  you  do.  We  cut  your 
pockets  to  suit  ourselves,  but  furnish  you  as  much  choler  as 
you  can  stand.  If  you  are  a  pursey  man  the  suit  will  have 
no  lack  of  sighs  for  you  ;  if  you  are  thin,  it  will  make  your 
waste  the  greater. 

Mr.  Dibble's  usual  companion  in  this  office  was  his  clerk, 
Bladams,*  who  generally  wrote  at  the  second  desk,  and, 
consequently,  was  a  person  of  another  deskscription.  A 
politician  in  former  days  —  when  he  was  known,  as  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Adams  —  this  clerk  had  aspired  to  office  in  New  York, 
and  freely  spent  his  means  to  attain  the  same.  His  name, 

*  In  the  original,  Bazzard. 


100  A   PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL. 

however,  was  too  much  for  his  fortune.  Public  credulity  re- 
volted from  the  pretence  that  a  William  Adams  had  come 
from  Ireland  some  years  before,  on  purpose  to  found  the 
family  of  which  the  later  candidate  of  the  same  name  claimed 
to  be  a  descendant ;  and,  after  an  election  in  which  he  had 
spent  the  last  of  his  money,  he  was  "counted  out"  in  favor 
of  a  rather  hod  character  named  O'Glooral.  Thus  practi- 
cally taught  to  understand  the  political  genius  of  a  Republic, 
which,  as  gloriously  contrasted  with  any  effete  monarchy 
ruled  by  a  Peerage,  looks  for  its  own  governing  class  to  the 
Steerage,  Mr.  William  Adams  subsided  impecuniously  into 
plain  Bill  Adams  and  a  book-keepership  in  dry  goods  ;  and 
was  ultimately  blurred  into  Bladams  and  employment  as  a 
copyist  by  Mr.  Dibble,  to  whom  his  experience  of  spending 
every  cent'  he  had  in  the  world,  and  getting  nothing  in  the 
world  for  it  but  wrinkles,  seemed  felicitously  legal  and  almost 
supernaturally  qualifying  for  law-writing.  Bladams  was  about 
forty  years  old,  though  appearing  much  older :  with  a  slight 
cast  in  his  left  eye,  a  pimply  pink  countenance,  and  a  cir- 
cular piece  of  unimproved  property  on  top  of  his  head. 

"  Any  news  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dibble,  as  this  member  of 
the  once  powerful  American  race  entered  the  office  and  still 
grasped  the  edge  of  the  door. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Drood  across  the  street  just  now,"  was  the 
answer.  . 

"  And  what  did  he  say,  Bladams  ?  " 


A  PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL. 


"That  in  turn  he'd  see  me  across  the  street;  and  here  he 
is,"  returned  the  clerk,  advancing  into  the  room. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Edwin,  glad  to  see  you  ! "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Dibble,  rising  to  his  feet  and  turning  about  to  greet  the 
new  comer.  "  Sit  down  by  the  fire ;  and  don't  mind  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Bladams,  who  was  once  a  gentleman." 

"  Thank  you,  old  man,  I  don't  know  but  I  -will  take  a 
glow  with  you,"  said  Edwin,  accepting  a  chair  and  throwing 
aside  hat  and  overcoat. 

"  You're  just  in  time  to  dine  with  me,"  continued  the  law- 
yer. "I'll  send  across  to  a  restaurant  for  three  stews  and  as 
many  mugs  of  ale.  We  must  ask  Mr.  Bladams  to  join  us, 
you  see ;  for  he  was  once  a  decent  man,  and  might  not  like 
to  be  sent  out  for  oysters  unless  asked  to  take  some." 

"  If  they're  the  small  black  ones  you  generally  treat  on, 
I'd  rather  be  excused,"  grumbled  Mr.  Bladams,  involuntarily 
placing  a  hand  upon  his  stomach,  as  though  already  paying 
the  penalty  of  such  bivalvular  hospitality. 

"  Order  saddle-rocks  this  time,"  was  the  reckless  response 
of  his  employer.  "Mr.  Edwin  is  so  rarely  our  guest  that  we 
must  do  the  princely.  You'll  tell  them,  Bladams,  to  send 
plenty  of  crackers,  and  request  the  waiters  to  keep  their  fin- 
gers out  of  the  stews  while  bringing  the  latter  over.  I've 
known  waiters  to  have  their  finger-nails  boiled  off  in  time,  by 
a  habit  of  carrying  soup  and  stews  with  the  ends  of  their 
digits  in  them." 

The  clerk  departing  to  order  the  feast,  Mr.  Dibble  re- 


102  A   PICTURE  AND  A    PARCEL. 

newed  his  attention  to  Mr.  E.  Drood,  who  had  already  taken 
his  ball  from  his  pocket  and  was  practising  against  the  man- 
tel. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  on  your  way  to  Bumsteadville,  again, 
Mr.  Edwin,  and  have  called  to  see  if  I  have  any  message  for 
my  pretty  ward  over  there." 

"  That's  the  ticket,"  assented  Edwin,  making  a  neat  fly- 
catch. 

"You're  impatient  to  be  there,  of  course  ?  "  asserted  Mr. 
Dibble,  with  what  might  have  passed  for  an  attempt  at  arch- 
ness, if  he  had  not  been  so  wholly  devoted  to  squareness. 

"  I  believe  the  Flowerpot  is  expecting  me,"  yawned  the 
young  man. 

"  Do  you  keep  plants  there,  Mr.  Edwin  ?  " 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  regular  plant,  Mr.  Dibble." 

"  But  you  spoke  about  a  flowerpot." 

Edwin  stretched  his  feet  further  toward  the  fire,  and  ex- 
plained that  he  meant  Miss  Potts.  "  Did  she  say  anything 
to  you  about  the  Pendragons,  when  you  saw  her?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"What  are  Pendragons?"  asked  the  lawyer,  wonderingly. 

"  One  of  them  is  a  schoolmate  of  hers.  A  girl  with  some 
style  about  her." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dibble,  "  she  did  not.  —  But  here  comes 
Bladams." 

Bladams  ushered  in  two  waiters  —  one  Irish  and  one  Ger- 
man —  who  wore  that  look  of  blended  long-suffering  and  ex- 


A  PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  103 

treme  weariness  of  everything  eatable,  which,  in  this  coun- 
try, seems  inevitably  characteristic  of  the  least  personal 
agency  in  the  serving  of  meals.  (There  may  be  lands  in 
which  the  not  essentially  revolting  art  of  cookery  can 
be  practised  without  engendering  irritable  gloom  in  the 
bosoms  of  its  practitioners,  and  the  spreading  of  tables  does 
not  necessarily  entail  upon  the  actors  therein  a  despon- 
dency almost  sinister ;  but  the  American  kitchen  is  the  home 
of  beings  who  never  laugh,  save  in  that  sardonic  bitterness  of 
spirit  which  grimly  mocks  the  climax  of  human  endurance 
in  the  burning  of  the  soup  ;  and  the  waiter  of  the  American 
dining-room  can  scarcely  place  a  dish  upon  the  board  with- 
out making  it  eloquent  of  a  blighted  existence.)  Having 
dashed  the  stews  upon  the  reading-table  before  the  fire,  and 
rescued  a  drowning  fly*  from  one  of  them  with  his  least  ap- 
petizing thumb-nail,  the  melancholy  Irish  attendant  polished 
the  spoons  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  hurled  them  on 
either  side  of  the  plates.  Perceiving  that  his  German  asso- 
ciate, in  listlessly  throwing  the  mugs  of  ale  upon  the  table, 
had  spilled  some  of  the  liquid,  he  hurriedly  wiped  the  stain 
away  with  Edwin  Brood's  worsted  muffler,  and  dried  the 
sides  of  the  glasses  upon  the  napkin  intended  for  Mr.  Dibble's 
use.  There  was .  something  of  the  wild  resources  of  de- 

*  In  anticipation  of  any  critical  objection  to  the  introduction  of  a  living_/?_y  in  Decem- 
ber, the  Adapter  begs  leave  to  assert  that  an  anachronism  is  always  legitimate  in  a 
work  of  fiction  when  a  point  is  to  be  made.  Thus  in  Chaptei  VIII.  of  the  inimitable 
"  Nicholas  Nickleby,"  Mr.  Squeers  tells  Nicholas  that  morning  has  come,  "and  ready 
iced,  too ;  "  and  that  "  the  pump's  Jroze;"  while  only  a  few  pages  later,  in  the  same 
chapter,  one  of  Mr.  Squeers'  scholars  is  spoken  of  as  "  weeding  the  garden." 


104  A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL. 

spair,  too,  in  this  man's  frequent  ghostly  dispatch  of  the 
Gennan  after  articles  forgotten  in  the  first  trip,  such  as 
another  cracker,  the  cover  of  the  pepper-cruet,  the  salt,  and 
one  more  pinch  of  butter ;  and  so  greatly  did  his  apparent 
dejection  of  soul  increase  as  each  supplementary  luxury  ar- 
rived and  was  recklessly  slammed  into  its  place,  that,  upon 
finally  retiring  from  the  room  with  his  associate,  his  utter 
hopelessness  of  aspect  gave  little  suggestion  of  the  future 
proud  political  preferment  to  which,  by  virtue  of  his  low 
estate  and  foreign  birth,  he  was  assuredly  destined. 

The  whole  scene  had  been  a  reproachful  commentary 
upon  the  stiff  American  system  of  discouraging  waiters  from 
making  remarks  upon  the  weather,  inquiring  the  cost  of 
one's  new  coat,  conferring  with  one  upon  the  general  pros- 
pects of  his  business  for  the  season,  or  from  indulging  in  any 
of  the  various  light  conversational  diversions  whereby  bar- 
bers, Fulton-street  tailors,  and  other  depressed  gymnasts, 
are  occasionally  and  wholesomely  relieved  from  the  misery 
of  brooding  over  their  equally  dispiriting  avocations. 

After  the  departure  of  the  future  aldermen,  or  sheriffs,  of 
the  city,  the  good  old  lawyer  accompanied  his  young  guest  in 
an  expeditious  assimilation  of  the  stews ;  saying  little,  but 
silently  regretting,  for  the  sake  of  good  manners,  that  Mr. 
Bladams  could  not  eat  oysters  without  making  a  noise  as 
though  they  were  alive  in  his  mouth.  At  last,  mug  of  ale 
in  hand,  he  turned  to  his  clerk : 

"Bladams!" 


A  PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  105 

"  Sir  to  you ! "  responded  Mr.  Bladams,  hastily  putting 
down  the  plate  from  which  he  had  been  drinking  his  last 
drop  of  stew,  and  grasping  his  own  mug. 

"  Your  health,  Bladams.  — Mr.  Edwin  joins  me,  I'm  sure. 
— And  may  the  —  may  our  —  that  is,  may  your  —  suppose 
we  call  it  bump  of  Happiness  —  may  your  bump  of  Happi- 
ness increase." 

Staring  thoughtfully,  Mr.  Bladams  felt  for  the  Bump  upon 
his  head,  and  having  scratched  what  he  seemed  to  take  for 
it,  replied  :  "  It's  a  go,  sir.  The  Bump  has  increased  some 
since  Kent's  Commentaries  fell  on  it  from  that  top-shelf  the 
other  day." 

"I  am  going  to  toast  my  lovely  ward,"  whispered  Mr. 
Dibble  to  Edwin ;  "  but  I  put  Bladams  first,  because  he  was 
once  a  person  to  be  respected,  and  I  treat  him  with  polite- 
ness in  place  of  a  good  salary." 

"  Success  to  the  Bump,"  said  Edwin  Drood,  rather  struck 
by  this  piece  of  practical  economy,  and  newly  impressed 
with  the  standard  fact  that  politeness  costs  nothing. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Mr.  Dibble,  with  a  wink  in  which 
his  very  ear  joined,  "  I  give  you  the  peerless  Miss  Flora 
Potts.  Bladams,  please  remember  that  there  are  others  here 
to  eat  crackers  besides  yourself,  and  join  us  in  a  health  to 
Miss  Potts." 

"Let  the  toast  pass  —  drink  to  the  lass!"  cried  Mr. 
Bladams,  husky  with  crackers.  "  All  ale  to  her ! " 

"  Count  me  in  too,"  assented  Edwin. 
5* 


106  A  PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  the  old  lawyer,  breaking  a  momentary 
spell  of  terror  occasioned  by  Mr.  Bladams  having  turned 
blue  and  nearly  choked  to  death  in  a  surreptitious  attempt  to 
swallow  a  cracker  which  he  had  previously  concealed  in  one 
of  his  cheeks.  "  Dear  me  !  although  I  am  a  square,  prac- 
tical man,  I  do  believe  that  I  could  draw  a  picture  of  a  true 
lover's  state  of  mind  to-night." 

"  A  regular  chromo,"  wheezed  Mr.  Bladams,  encourag- 
ingly ;  pretending  not  to  notice  that  his  employer  was 
reaching  an  ineffectual  arm  after  the  crackers  at  his  own 
elbow. 

"Subject  to  the  approving,  or  correcting,  judgment  of 
Mr.  E.  Drood,  I  make  bold  to  guess  that  the  modern  true 
lover's  mind,  such  as  it  is,  is  rendered  jerky  by  contempla- 
tion of  the  lady  who  has  made  him  the  object  of  her  virgin 
affectations,"  proceeded  Mr.  Dibble,  looking  intently  at 
Edwin,  but  still  making  farther  and  farther  reaches  toward 
the  distant  crackers,  even  to  the  increased  tilting  of  his 
chair.  "  I  venture  the  conjecture,  that  if  he  has  any  dar- 
ling pet  name  for  her,  such  as  '  Pinky-winky,'  '  Little  Fooly,' 
'  Chignonentity,'  or  'Waxy  Wobbles,'  he  feels  horribly 
ashamed  if  any  one  overhears  it,  and  coughs  violently  to 
make  believe  that  he  never  said  it." 

It  was  curious  to  see  Edwin  listening  with  changing  color 
to  this  truthful  exposure  of  his  young  mind ;  the  while,  influ- 
enced unconsciously,  probably,  by  the  speaker's  example, 
he,  too,  had  begun  reaching  and  chair-tilting  toward  the 


A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  107 

crackers  across  the  table.  What  time  Mr.  Bladams,  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  board,  had  apparently  sunk  into  a 
sudden  and  deep  slumber ;  although  from  beneath  one  of  his 
folded  arms  a  finger  dreamily  rested  upon  the  rim  of  the 
cracker-plate,  and  occasionally  gave  it  a  little  pull  farther 
away  from  the  approaching  hands. 

"My  picture,"  continued  Mr.  Dibble,  now  quite  hoarse, 
and  almost  horizontal  in  his  reaching,  to  Edwin  Drood,  also 
nearly  horizontal  in  the  same  way  —  "my  picture  goes  on 
to  represent  the  true  lover  as  ever  eager  to  be  with  his  dear 
one,  for  the  purpose  of  addressing  implacable  glares  at  the 
Other  Young  Man  with  More  Property,  whom  She  says  she 
always  loved  as  a  Brother  when  they  were  Children  To- 
gether ;  and  of  smiling  bitterly  and  biting  off  the  ends  of  his 
new  gloves  (which  is  more  than  he  can  really  afford,  at  his 
salary),  when  She  softly  tells  him  that  he  is  making  a  perfect 
fool  of  himself.  My  picture  further  represents  him  to  be 
continually  permeated  by  a  consciousness  of  such  tight  boots 
as  he  ought  not  to  wear,  even  for  the  Beloved  Object,  and 
of  such  readiness  to  have  new  cloth  coats  spoiled,  by  getting 
hair-oil  on  the  left  shoulder,  as  shall  yet  bring  him  to  a 
scene  of  violence  with  his  distracted  tailor.  It  shows  him, 
likewise,  as  filled  with  exciting  doubts  of  his  own  relative 
worth  :  that  is,  with  self-questionings  as  to  whether  he  shall 
ever  be  worth  enough  to  buy  that  cantering  imported  saddle- 
horse  which  he  has  already  promised ;  to  spend  every  sum- 
mer in  a  private  cottage  at  Newport ;  to-fight  off  Western 


108  A  PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL. 

divorces,  and  to  pay  an  eloquent  lawyer  a  few  thousands  for 
getting  him  clear,  on  the  plea  of  insanity,  after  he  shall  have 
shot  the  Other  Young  Man  with  More  Property  for  wanting 
his  wife  to  be  a  Sister  to  him,  again,  as  she  was,  you  know, 
when  they  were  Children  Together." 

Edwin,  despite  the.  coldness  of  the  season,  had  perspired 
freely  during  the  latter  part  of  the  Picture,  and  sought  to 
disguise  his  uneasiness  at  its  beautiful,  yet  severe  truth,  by  a 
last  push  of  his  extended  arm  toward  the  crackers.  Quickly 
observing  this,  Mr.  Dibble  also  made  a  final  desperate  reach 
after  the  same  object;  so  that  both  old  man  and  young, 
while  pretending  to  heed  each  other's  words  only,  were  two- 
thirds  across  the  table,  with  their  feet  in  the  air  and  their 
chairs  poised  on  one  leg  each.  At  that  very  moment,  by 
some  unhappy  chance,  while  nearly  the  whole  weight  of  the 
two  was  pressing  upon  their  edge  of  the  board,  Mr.  Bladams 
abruptly  awoke,  and  raised  his  elbows  from  his  edge,  to  re- 
lieve 'his  arms  by  stretching.  Released  from  his  pressure, 
the  table  flew  up  upon  two  legs  with  remarkable  swiftness, 
and  then  turned  over  upon  Mr.  Dibble  and  Mr.  E.  Drood ; 
bringing  the  two  latter  and  their  chairs  to  the  floor  under  a 
shower  of  plates  and  crackers,  and  resting  invertedly  upon 
their  prostrate  forms,  like  some  species  of  four-pillared  mon- 
umental temple  without  a  roof. 

A  person  less  amiable  than  the  good  Mr.  Dibble  would 
have  borrowed  the  name  of  an  appurtenance  of  a  mill,  at 
least  once,  as  a  suitable  expression  of  his  feelings  upon  such 


A  PICTURE  AND  A  PARCEL.  109 

a  trying  occasion ;  but,  instead  of  this,  when  Mr.  Bladams, 
excitedly  crying  "  Fire  ! "  lifted  the  overturned  table  from  off 
himself  and  the  young  guest,  he  merely  arose  to  a  sitting 
position  on  the  littered  carpet,  and  said  to  Edwin,  with  a 
smile  and  a  rub  :  "  Pray,  am  I  at  all  near  the  mark  in  my 
picture?" 

"  I  should  say,  sir,"  responded  Edwin,  with  a  very  strange 
expression  of  countenance,  also  rubbing  the  back  of  his 
head,  "  that  you  are  rather  hard  upon  the  feelings  of  the  un- 
lucky lover.  He  may  not  show  all  that  he  feels — " 

There  he  paused  so  long  to  feel  his  nose  and  ascertain 
about  its  being  broken,  that  Mr.  Dibble  limped  to  his  feet 
and  ended  that  part  of  the  discussion  by  hobbling  to  an 
open  iron  safe  across  the  office. 

Taking  from  a  private  drawer  in  this  repository  a  small 
paper  parcel,  containing  a  pasteboard  box,  and  opening  the 
latter,  the  old  lawyer  produced  what  looked  like  a  long,  flat 
white  cord,  with  shining  tips  at  either  end. 

"  This,  Mr.  Edwin,"  said  he,  with  marked  emotion,  "  is  a 
stay-lace,  with  golden  tags,  which  belonged  to  Miss  Flora's 
mother.  It  was  handed  to  me,  in  the  abstraction  of  his 
grief,  by  Miss  Flora's  father,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral;  he 
saying  that  he  could  never  bear  to  look  upon  it  again.  To 
you,  as  Miss  Flora's  future  husband,  I  now  give  it." 

"A  stay-lace  !"  echoed  Edwin,  coming  forward  as  quickly 
as  his  lameness  would  allow,  and  staunching  his  swollen 
upper  lip  with  a  handkerchief. 


110  A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL. 

"Yes,"  was  the  grave  response.  "You  have  undoubt- 
edly noticed,  Mr.  Edwin,  that  in  every  fashionable  romance, 
the  noble  and  grenadine  heroine  has  a  habit  of  '  drawing 
herself  up  proudly '  whenever  any  gentleman  tries  to  shake 
hands  with  her,  or  asks  her  how  she  can  possibly  be  so  ma- 
jestic with  him.  This  lace  was  used  by  Miss  Flora's  mother 
to  draw  herself  up  proudly  with ;  and  she  drew  herself  up  so 
much  with  it,  that  it  finally  reached  her  heart  and  killed  her. 
I  here  place  it  in  your  hands,  that  you  may  ultimately  give 
it  to  your  young  wife  as  a  memento  of  a  mother  who  did 
nothing  by  halves  but  die.  If  you,  by  any  chance,  should 
not  marry  the  daughter,  I  solemnly  charge  you,  by  the  mem- 
ory of  the  living  and  the  dead,  to  bring  it  back  to  me." 

Receiving  the  parcel  with  some  awe,  Edwin  placed  it  in 
one  of  his  pockets. 

"Bladams,"  said  Mr.  Dibble,  solemnly,  "you  are  witness 
of  the  transfer." 

"  Deponent,  being  duly  sworn,  does  swear  and  cuss  that 
he  saw  it,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and  belief,"  returned 
the  clerk,  helping  Mr.  Drood  to  resume  his  overcoat. 

When  in  his  own  room,  at  Gowanus,  that  night,  Mr. 
Dibble,  in  his  nightcap,  paused  a  moment  before  extinguish- 
ing his  light,  to  murmur  to  himself :  "  I  wonder,  now, 
whether  poor  Potts  confided  his  orphan  child  to  me  because 
he  knew  that  I  might  have  been  the  successful  suitor  to  the 
mother  if  I  had  been  worth  a  little  more  money  just  about 
then?" 


A   PICTURE  AND  A   PARCEL.  Ill 

What  time,  in  the  law-office  in  town,  Mr.  Bladams  was 
upon  his  knees  on  th£  floor,  tossing  crackers  from  all  direc- 
tions on  the  carpet  into  his  month,  like  a  farinaceous  goblin, 
and  nearly  suffocating  whenever  he  glanced  at  the  disor- 
dered table. 


112         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   NIGHT   OF   IT   WITH   MCLAUGHLIN. 

JUDGE  SWEENEY,  with  a  certain  supercilious  conscious- 
ness that  he  is  figuring  in  a  novel,  and  that  it  will  not  do 
for  Mm  to  thwart  the  eccentricities  of  mysterious  fiction  by 
any  commonplace  deference  to  the  mere  meteorological 
weakness  of  ordinary  human  nature,  does  not  allow  the  fact 
that  late  December  is  a  rather  bleak  and  cold  time  of  year  to 
deter  him  from  taking  daily  airings  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Ritualistic  churchyard.  Since  the  inscription  of  his  ep- 
itaph on  his  late  wife  upon  her  monument  therein,  the 
churchyard  is  to  him  a  kind  of  ponderous  work  of  imagina- 
tion with  marble  leaves,  to  which  he  has  contributed  the 
most  brilliant  chapter ;  and  when  he  sees  any  stranger  hov- 
ering about  a  part  of  the  outer  railings  from  whence  the  in- 
scription may  be  read,  it  is  with  all  the  swelling  pride  of  an 
author  who,  having  procured  the  publication  of  some  trans- 
cendental article  in  a  Boston  magazine,  is  thrown  into  an 
ecstasy  of  vanity  if  he  sees  but  one  person  glance  at  that 
number  of  the  periodical  on  a  news-stand. 

Since  his  first  meeting  with  Mr.  Bumstead,  on  the  eve- 
ning of  the  epitaph-reading,  Judge  Sweeney  has  cultivated 


A   NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         113 

that  gentleman's  acquaintance,  and  been  received  at  his 
lodgings  several  times  with  considerable  cordiality  and 
lemon-tea.  On  such  occasions,  Mr.  Bumstead,  in  his  mu- 
sical capacity,  has  sung  so  closely  in  Judge  Sweeney's  ear  as 
to  tickle  him,  a  wild  and  slightly  incoherent  Ritualistic  stave, 
to  the  effect  that  Saint  Peter's  of  Rome,  with  pontifical 
dome,  would  by  ballot  Infallible  be ;  but  for  making  Call 
sure,  and  Election  secure,  Saint  Repeater's  of  Rum  beats 
the  See.  With  finger  in  ear  to  allay  the  tickling  sensation, 
Judge  Sweeney  declares  that  this  young  man  smelling  of 
cloves  is  a  person  of  great  intellectual  attainments,  and  un- 
derstands the  political  genius  of  his  country  well  enough  to 
make  an  excellent  Judge  of  Election. 

Walking  slowly  near  the  churchyard  on  this  particular 
freezing  December  evening,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  his  eyes  intent  for  any  envious  husband  who  may  be 
"with  a  rush  retiring,"  monumentally  counselled,  after 
reading  the  epitaph,  Judge  Sweeney  suddenly  comes  upon 
Father  Dean  conversing  with  Smythe,  the  sexton,  and  Mr. 
Bumstead.  Bowing  to  these  three,  who,  like  himself,  seem 
to  find  real  luxury  in  open-air  strolling  on  a  bitter  night  in 
midwinter,  he  notices  that  his  model,  the  Ritual  Rector, 
is  wearing  a  new  hat,  like  a  Cardinal's,  only  black,  and  is 
immediately  lost  in  wondering  where  he  can  obtain  one  like 
it  short  of  Rome. 

"You  look  so  much  like  an  author,  Mr.  Bumstead.  in 
having  no  overcoat,  wearing  your  paper  collar  upside  down, 


114:         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

and  carrying  a  pen  behind  your  ear,"  Father  Dean  is  say- 
ing, "  that  I  can  almost  fancy  you  are  about  to  write  a 
book  about  us.  Well,  Bumsteadville  is  just  the  place  to  fur- 
nish a  nice,  dry,  inoffensive  domestic  novel  in  the  sedative 
Bayard  Taylor  vein." 

After  two  or  three  ineffectual  efforts  to  seize  the  end  of 
it,  which  he  seems  to  think  is  an  inch  or  two  higher  than  its 
actual  position,  Mr.  Bumstead  finally  withdraws  from  be- 
tween his  right  ear  and  head  a  long  and  neatly  cut  hollow 
straw. 

"This  is  not  a  pen,  Holy  Father,"  he  answers,  after  a  mo- 
mentary glance  of  majestic  severity  at  Mr.  Smythe,  who  has 
laughed.  "  It  is  only  a  simple  instrument  which  I  use,  as 
a  species  of  syphon,  in  certain  chemical  experiments  with 
sliced  tropical  fruit  and  glass-ware.  In  the  precipitation  of 
lemon-slices  into  cut  crystal,  it  is  necessary  for  the  liquid 
medium  to  be  exhausted  gradually ;  and,  after  using  this  cyl- 
inder of  straw  for  the  purpose  about  an  hour  ago,  I  must 
have  placed  it  behind  my  ear  in  a  moment  of  absent-minded- 
ness." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  Father  Dean,  although  he  didn't.  "But 
what  is  this,  Judge  Sweeney,  respecting  your  introduction  of 
McLaughlin  to  Mr.  Bumstead,  which  I  have  heard  about  ?  " 

"  Why,  your  Reverence,  I  consider  John  McLaughlin  a 
character,"  responds  the  Judge,  "and  thought  our  young 
friend  of  the  organ-loft  might  like  to  study  him." 

"  The  truth  is,"   explains  Mr.   Bumstead,  "  that    Judge 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         115 

Sweeney  put  it  into  my  head  to  do  a  few  pauper  graves 
with  John  McLaughlin,  some  moonlight  night,  for  the  mere 
oddity  and  dampness  of  the  thing. —  And  I  should  regret  to 
believe,"  adds  Mr.  Bumstead,  raising  his  voice  as  he  saw 
that  .the  judiciary  was  about  to  interrupt — "And  I  should 
really  be  loathe  to  believe  that  Judge  Sweeney  was  not  per- 
fectly sober  when  he  did  so." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  certainly  —  I  remember  —  to  be  sure,"  ex- 
claims the  Judge  in  great  haste ;  alarmed  into  speedy  assent 
by  the  construction  which  he  perceives  would  be  put  upon 
a  denial.  "I  remember  it  very  distinctly.  I  remember 
putting  it  into  your  head  —  by  the  tumblerful,  if  I  remember 
rightly." 

"  Profiting  by  your  advice,"  continues  Mr.  Bumstead,  ob- 
livious to  the  last  sentence,  "I  am  going  out  to-night,  in 
search  of  the  moist  and  picturesque,  with  John  McLaugh- 
lin—" 

"Who  is  here,"  says  Father  Dean. 

Old  Mortality,  dinner-kettle  in  hand  and  more  mortary 
than  ever,  is  indeed  seen  approaching  them  with  shuffling 
gait.  Bowing  to  the  Holy  Father,  he  is  about  to  pass  on, 
when  Judge  Sweeney  stops  him  with  — 

"  You  must  be  very  careful  with  your  friend  Bumstead, 
this  evening,  John  McLaughlin,  and  see  that  he  don't  fall 
and  break  his  neck." 

"  Never  you  worry  about  Mr.  Bumstead,  Judge,"  growls 


116         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

Old  Mortarity.  "  He  can  walk  further  off  the  perpendick- 
lar  without  tumbling  than  any  gentleman  I  ever  see." 

"Of  course  I  can,  John  McLaughlin,"  says  Mr.  Bum- 
stead,  checking  another  unseemly  laugh  of  Mr.  Smyth e's 
with  a  dreadful  frown.  "  I  often  practise  walking  sideways, 
for  the  purpose  of  developing  the  muscles  on  that  side. 
The  left  side  is  always  the  weaker,  and  the  hip  a  trifle  lower, 
if  one  does  not  counteract  the  difference  by  walking  side- 
ways occasionally." 

A  great  deal  of  unnecessary  coughing,  which  follows  this 
physiological  exposition,  causes  Mr.  Bumstead  to  breathe 
hard  at  them  all  for  a  moment,  and  tread  with  great  malig- 
nity upon  Mr.  Smythe's  nearest  corn. 

While  yet  the  sexton  is  groaning,  Old  Mortarity  whispers 
to  the  Ritualistic  organist  that  he  will  be  ready  for  him  at 
the  appointed  hour  to-night,  and  shuffles  away.  After  which 
Mr.  Bumstead,  with  the  hollow  straw  sticking  out  fiercely  from 
behind  his  ear,  privately  offers  to  see  Father  Dean  home  if 
he  feels  at  all  dizzy ;  and,  being  courteously  refused,  retires 
down  the  turnpike  toward  his  own  lodgings  with  military  pre- 
cision of  step. 

When  night  falls  upon  the  earth  like  a  drop  of  ink  upon 
the  word  Sun,  and  the  stars  glitter  like  the  points  of  so 
many  poised  gold  pens  all  ready  to  write  the  softer  word 
Moon  above  the  blot,  the  organist  of  St.  Cow's  sits  in  his 
own  room,  where  his  fire  keeps-up  a  kind  of  aspenish  twi- 
light, and  executes  upon  his  accordeon  a  series  of  wild  and 


A   NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         117 

mutilated  airs.  The  moistened  towel  which  he  often  wears 
when  at  home  is  turbaned  upon  his  head,  causing  him  to 
present  a  somewhat  Turkish  appearance  ;  and  as,  when  turn- 
ing a  particularly  complicated  corner  in  an  air,  it  is  his  artis- 
tic habit  to  hold  his  tongue  between  his  teeth,  twist  his  head 
in  sympathy  with  the  elaborate  fingering,  and  involuntarily 
lift  one  foot  higher  and  higher  from  the  floor  as  some  skit- 
tish note  frantically  dodges  to  evade  him,  his  general  musical 
aspect  at  his  own  hearth,  is  that  of  a  partially  Oriental  gen- 
tleman, agonizingly  laboring  to  cast  from  him  some  furious 
animal  full  of  strange  sounds.  Thus  engaging  in  desperate 
single  combat  with  what,  for  making  a  ferocious  fight  before 
any  recognizable  time  can  be  rescued  from  it,  is,  perhaps, 
the  most  exhausting  instrument  known  to  evening  amateurs 
and  maddened  neighborhoods,  Mr.  Bumstead  passes  three 
athletic  hours.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  after  repeatedly 
tripping-up  the  exasperated  organist  over  wrong  keys  in  the 
last  .bar,  the  accordeon  finally  relinquishes  the  concluding 
note  with  a  dismal  whine  of  despair,  and  retires  in  complete 
collapse  to  its  customary  place  of  waiting.  Then  the  con- 
quering performer  changes  his  towel  for  a  hat  which  would 
look  better  if  it  had  not  been  so  often  worn  in  bed,  places 
an  antique  black  bottle  in  one  pocket  of  his  coat  and  a 
few  cloves  in  the  other;  hangs  an  unlighted  lantern  before 
him  by  a  cord  passing  about  his  neck,  and,  with  his  um- 
brella *under  his  arm,  goes  softly  down  stairs  and  out  of 
the  house. 


118         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

Repairing  to  the  marble-yard  and  home  of  Old  Mortarity, 
which  are  on  the  outskirts  of  Bumsteadville,  he  wanders 
through  mortar-heaps,  monuments  brought  for  repair,  and 
piles  of  bricks,  toward  a  whitewashed  residence  of  small 
dimensions  with  a  light  at  the  window. 

"  John  McLaughlin,  ahoy ! " 

In  response,  the  master  of  the  mansion  promptly  opens 
the  door,  and  it  is  then  perceptible  that  his  basement,  par- 
lor, spare -bedroom,  and  attic  are  all  on  one  floor,  and  that  a 
couple  of  pigs  are  spending  the  season  with  him.  Showing 
his  visitor  into  this  ingeniously  condensed  establishment,  he 
induces  the  pigs  to  retire  to  a  corner,  and  then  dons  his  hat. 

"  Are  you  ready,  John  McLaughlin  ?  " 

"Please  the  pigs,  I  am,  Mr.  Bumstead,"  answers  Mc- 
Laughlin, taking  down  from  a  hook  a  lantern,  which,  like  his 
companion's,  he  hangs  from  his  neck  by  a  cord.  "  My  spir- 
its is  equal  to  any  number  of  ghosts  to-night,  sir,  if  we  meet 
'em." 

"  Spirits  ! "  ejaculates  the  Ritualistic  organist,  shifting  his 
umbrella  for  a  moment  while  he  hurriedly  draws  the  antique 
bottle  from  his  pocket.  "  You're  nervous  to-night,  J.  Mc- 
Laughlin, and  need  a  little  of  the  venerable  James  Aker*s 
West  Indian  Restorative.  —  I'll  try  it  first,  to  make  sure  that 
I  haven't  mistaken  the  phial." 

He  rests  the  elongated  orifice  of  the  diaphanous  flask  up- 
on his  lips  for  a  brief  interval  of  critical  inspection,  and  then 
applies  it  thoughtfully  to  the  mouth  of  Old  Mortarity. 


A   NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         119 

"  Some  more  !  Some  more  ! "  pleads  the  aged  McLaugh- 
lin,  when  the  Jamaican  nervine  is  abruptly  jerked  from  his 
lips. 

"  Silence  !  Come  on,"  is  the  stern  response  of  the  other, 
who,  as  he  moves  from  the  house,  and  restores  the  crystal 
antiquity  to  its  proper  pocket,  eats  a  few  cloves  by  stealth. 
His  manner  plainly  shows  that  he  is  offended  at  the  quantity 
the  old  man  has  managed  to  swallow  already. 

Strange  indeed  is  the  ghastly  expedition  to  the  place  of 
skulls,  upon  which  these  two  go  thus  by  night.  Not  strange, 
perhaps,  for  Mr.  McLaughlin,  whose  very  youth  in  New 
York,  where  he  was  an  active  politician,  found  him  a  fre- 
quent nightly  familiar  of  the  Tombs ;  but  strange  for  the 
organist,  who,  although  often  grave  in  his  manner,  sepulch- 
ral in  his  tones,  and  occasionally  addicted  to  coughin',  must 
be  curiously  eccentric  to  wish  to  pass  into  concert  that  eve- 
ning with  the  dead  heads. 

Transfixed  by  his  umbrella,  which  makes  him  look  like  a 
walking  cross  between  a  pair  of  boots  and  a  hat,  Mr.  Bum- 
stead  leads  the  way  athwart  the  turnpike  and  several  fields, 
until  they  have  arrived  at  a  low  wall  skirting  the  foot  of  Gos- 
peller's Gulch.  Here  they  catch  sight  of  the  Reverend  Oc- 
tavius  Simpson  and  Montgomery  Pendragon  walking  to- 
gether, near  the  former's  house,  in  the  moonlight,  and,  instan- 
taneously, Mr.  Bumstead  opens  his  umbrella  over  the  head 
of  Old  Mortality,  and  drags  him  down  beside  himself  under 
it  behind  the  wall. 


120         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

11  Hallo  !  What' s  all  this  ?  "  gasps  Mr.  McLaughlin, 
struggling  affrightedly  in  his  suffocating  cage  of  whalebone 
and  alpaca.  "Whafs  this  here  old  lady's  hoop-skirt  do- 
ing on  me  ?  " 

"  Peace,  giggling  dotard  ! "  hisses  Bum  stead,  jamming  the 
umbrella  tighter  over  him.  "  If  they  see  us  they'll  want 
some  of  the  West  Indian  Restorative." 

Mr.  Simpson  and  Montgomery  have  already  heard  a 
sound ;  for  they  pause  abruptly  in  their  conversation,  and 
the  latter  asks  :  "  Could  it  have  been  a  ghost." 

"  Ask  it  if  it's  a  ghost ,"  whispers  the  Gospeller,  involunta- 
rily crossing  himself. 

"Are  you  there,  Mr.  G.  ?"  quavers  the  raised  voice  of 
the  young  Southerner,  respectfully  addressing  the  inquiry  to 
the  stone  wall. 

No  answer. 

"  Well,"  mutters  the  Gospeller,  "  it  couldn't  have  been  a 
ghost,  after  all ;  but  I  certainly  thought  I  saw  an  umbrella. 
To  conclude  what  I  was  saying,  then, —  I  have  the  confi- 
dence in  you,  Mr.  Montgomery,  to  believe  that  you  will  at- 
tend the  dinner  of  Reconciliation  on  Christmas  eve,  as  you 
have  promised." 

"  Depend  on  me,  sir." 

"  I  shall ;  and  have  become  surety  for  your  punctuality 
to  that  excellent  and  unselfish  healer  of  youthful  wounds, 
"Mr.  Bumstead." 

More  is  said  after  this ;  but  the  speakers  have  strolled  to 


A   NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         121 

the  other  side  of  the  Gospeller's  house,  and  their  words  can 
not  be  distinguished.  Mr.  Bumstead  closes  his  umbrella 
with  such  suddenness  and  violence  as  to  nearly  pull  off  the  • 
head  of  McLaughlin  ;  drives  his  own  hat  further  upon  his 
nose  with  a  sounding  blow;  takes  several  wild  swallows 
from  his  antique  flask  ;  eats  two  cloves,  and  chuckles  hoarse- 
ly to  himself  for  some  minutes.  "  Here,  John  McLaughlin, 
he  says  at  last,  "  try  a  little  more  West  Indian  Restorative, 
and  then  we'll  go  and  do  a  few  skeletons." 

The  pauper  burial-ground  toward  which  they  now  pro- 
gress in  a  rather  high-stepping  manner,  or  —  to  vary  the 
phrase  —  toward  which  their  steps  are  now  very  much  bent, 
is  not  a  favorite  resort  of  the  more  cheerful  village-people 
after  nightfall.  Ask  any  resident  of  Bumsteadville  if  he 
believed  in  ghosts,  and,  if  the  time  were  mid-day  and  the 
place  a  crowded  grocery  store,  he  would  fearlessly  answer 
in  the  negative ;  (just  the  same  as  a  Positive  philosopher  in 
cast-iron  health  and  with  no  thunder  shower  approaching 
would  undauntedly  deny  a  Deity ;)  but  if  any  resident  of 
Bumsteadville  should  happen  to  be  caught  near  the  country 
editor's  last  home  after  dark,  he  would  get  over  that  part 
of  his  road  in  a  curiously  agile  and  flighty  manner ;  —  (just 
the  same  as  a  Positive  philosopher  with  a  sore  throat,  or  at 
an  uncommonly  showy  bit  of  lightning,  would  repeat  "  Now 
I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  with  surprising  devotion.)  So, 
although  no  one  in  all  Bumsteadville  was  in  the  least  afraid 
of  the  pauper  burial-ground  at  any  hour,  it  was  not  invaria- ' 


122         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

bly  selected  by  the  great  mass  of  the  populace  as  a  peerless 
place  to  go  home  by  at  midnight ;  and  the  two  intellectual 
explorers  find  no  sentimental  young  couples  rambling  arm- 
in-arm  among  the  ghastly  head-boards,  nor  so  much  as  one 
loiterer  smoking  his  segar  on  a  suicide's  tomb. 

"John  McLaughlin,  you're  getting  nervous  again,"  says 
Mr.  Bumstead,  catching  him  in  the  coat  collar  with  the 
handle  of  his  umbrella  and  drawing  the  other  toward  him 
hand-over-hand.  "It's  about  time  that  you  should  revert 
again  to  the  hoary  James  Aker"s  excellent  preparation  for 
the  human  family.  —  I'll  try  it  first,  myself,  to  see  if  it  tastes 
at  all  of  the  cork." 

"  Ah-h,"  sighs  Old  Mortality,  after  his  turn  has  come  and 
been  enjoyed  at  last,  "that's  the  kind  of  Spirits  I  don't 
mind  being  a  wrapper  to.  I  could  wrap  them  up  all  night." 

Reflectively  chewing  a  clove,  the  Ritualistic  organist  re- 
clines on  the  pauper  grave  of  a  former  writer  for  the  daily 
press,  and  cogitates  upon  his  companion's  leaning  to  Spir- 
itualism ;  while  the  other  produces  matches  and  lights  their 
lanterns. 

"  Mr.  McLaughlin,"  he  solemnly  remarks,  waving  his  um- 
brella at  the  graves  around,  "  in  this  scene  you  behold  the 
very  last  of  man's  individual  being.  In  this  entombment  he 
ends  forever.  Tremble,  J.  McLaughlin !  —  forever.  Soul 
and  Spirit  are  but  unmeaning  words,  according  to  the  latest 
big  things  in  science.  The  departed  Dr.  Davis  Slavonski, 
of  St  Petersburg,  before  setting  out  for  the  Asylum,  proved, 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT  WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         123 

by  his  Atomic  Theory,  that  men  are  neatly  manufactured 
of  Atoms  of  matter,  which  are  continually  combining  to- 
gether until  they  form  Man ;  and  then  going  through  the 
process  of  Life,  which  is  but  the  mechanical  effect  of  their 
combination;  and  then  wearing  apart  again  by  attrition 
into  the  exhaustion  of  cohesion  called  7"*  -ath  ;  and  then 
crumbling  into  separate  Atoms  of  native  matter,  or  dust 
again ;  and  then  gradually  combining  again,  as  before,  and 
evolving  another  Man  ;  and  Living,  and  Dying,  again ;  and 
so  on  forever.  Thus,  and  thus  only,  is  Man  immortal. 
You  are  made  exclusively  of  Atoms  of  matter,  yourself, 
John  McLaughlin.  So  am  I." 

"  I  can  understand  a  man's  believing  that  he,  himself,  is 
all  Atoms  of  matter,  and  nothing  else,"  responds  Old  Mor- 
tarity,  sceptically. 

"  As  how,  John  McLaughlin,  —  as  how  ?  " 

"  When  he  knows  that,  at  any  rate,  he  hasn't  got  one 
atom  of  common  sense,"  is  the  answer. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Bumstead  arises  from  the  grave  and  fran- 
tically shakes  hands  with  him. 

"You're  right,  sir!"  he  says,  emotionally.  "You're  a 
gooroleman,  sir,  The  Atom  of  common  sense  was  one  of 
the  Atoms  that  Slavonski  forgot  all  about.  Let's  do  some 
skeletons  now." 

At  the  further  end  of  the  pauper  burial-ground,  and  in 
the  rear  of  the  former  Aims-House,  once  stood  a  building 
used  successively  as  a  cider-mill,  a  barn,  and  a  kind  of 


124         A  NIGHT.  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

chapel  for  paupers.  Long  ago,  from  neglect  and  bad 
weather,  the  frail  wooden  superstructure  had  fallen  into 
pieces  and  been  gradually  carted  off;  but  a  sturdy  stone 
foundation  remained  underground  ;  and,  although  the  floor- 
ing over  it  had  for  many  years  been  covered  with  debris  and 
rank  growth,  so  as  to  be  undistinguishable  to  common  eyes 
from  the  general  earth  around  it,  the  great  cellar  still  ex- 
tended beneath,  and,  according  to  Aveird  rumor,  had  some 
secret  access  for  Old  Mortarity,  who  used  it  as  a  charnel 
store -house  for  such  spoils  of  the  grave  as  he  found  in  his 
prowlings. 

To  the  spot  thus  historied  the  two  moralists  of  the  moon- 
light come  now,  and,  with  many  tumbles,  Mr.  McLaughlin 
removes  certain  artfully  placed  stones  and  rubbish,  and 
lifts  a  clumsy  extemporized  trap-door.  Below  appears  a 
ricketty  old  step-ladder  leading  into  darkness. 

"  I  heard  such  cries  and  groans  down  there,  last  Christ- 
mas-Eve, as  sounded  worse  than  the  Latin  singing  in  the 
Ritualistic  church,"  observes  McLaughlin. 

"  Cries  and  groans  ! "  echoes  Mr.  Bumstead,  turning 
quite  pale,  and  momentarily  forgetting  the  snakes  which  he 
is  just  beginning  to  discover  among  the  stones.  "You're 
getting  nervous  again,  poor  wreck,  and  need  some  more 
West  Indian  cough  mixture.  —  Wait  until  I  see  for  myself 
whether  it's  got  enough  sugar  in  it." 

In  due  time  the  great  nervous  antidote  is  passed  and  re- 
placed, and  then,  with  the  lighted  lanterns  worked  around 


A   NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         125 

under  their  arms,  they  go  down  the  tottering  ladder.  Down 
they  go  into  a  great  damp,  musty  cavern,  to  which  their 
lights  give  a  pallid  illumination. 

aSee  here,"  says  Old  Mortarity,  raising  a  long,  curved 
bone  from  the  floor.  "Look  at  that:  shoulder-blade  of 
unmarried  Episcopal  lady,  aged  thirty-nine." 

"How  do  you  know  she  was  so  old,  and  unmarried?" 
asks  the  organist. 

"  Because  the  shoulder-blade's  so  sharp." 

Mr.  Bumstead  is  surprised  at  this  specimen  of  an  Agassie 
and  Waterhouse  Hawkins  in  such  a  mortary  old  man,  and 
his  intellectual  pride  causes  him  to  resolve  at  once  upon  a 
rival  display. 

"Look  at  this  skull,  John  McLaughlin,"  he  says,  refer- 
ring to  an  object  that  he  has  found  behind  the  ladder. 
"  See  thish  fine,  retreating  brow,  bulging  chin,  projecting 
occipital  bone,  and  these  orifices  of  ears  that  musht've  been 
stupen'sly  long.  It's  the  skull,  John  McLaughlin,  of  a 
twin-brother  of  the  man  who  really  wished  —  really  wished, 
John  McLaughlin  —  that  he  could  be  sat'shfied,  sir,  in  his 
own  mind,  that  Charles  Dickens  was  a  Christian  writer." 

"Why,  thash's  skull  of  a  hog,"  explains  Mr.  McLaughlin, 
with  some  contempt. 

"Twin-brother — all  th' shame,"  says  Mr.  Bumstead,  as 
though  that  made  no  earthly  difference. 

Once  more,  what  a  strange  expedition  is  this !  How 
strangely  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  look,  after  two  or  three 


126        A  NIGHT  OF  IT  WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

more  applications  to  the  antique  flask ;  and  how  curiously 
Mr.  Bumstead  walks  on  tip-toe  at  times  and  takes  short 
leaps  now  and  then. 

"  Lesh  go  now,"  says  Bumstead,  after  both  have  been 
asleep  upon  their  feet  several  times ;  "  I  think  th's  snakes 
down  here,  John  McBumstead." 

"  Wh'st !  monkies,  you  mean, —  dozens  of  black  monkies, 
Mr.  Bumplin,"  whispers  Old  Mortarity,  clutching  his  arm  as 
he  sinks  against  him. 

•  "Noshir  !  Serp'nts  !"  insists  Mr.  Bumstead,  making  futile 
attempts  to  open  his  umbrella  with  one  hand.  "  Warzesmar- 
rer  with  th'  light  ?  —  ansh'r  me,  f  once  Mac  Johnbuncklin ! " 

In  their  swayings  under  the  confusions  and  delusions  of 
the  vault,  their  lanterns  have  worked  around  to  the  neigh- 
borhoods of  their  spines,  so  that,  whichever  way  they  turn, 
the  light  is  all  behind  them.  Greatly  agitated,  as  men  are 
apt  to  be  when  surrounded  by  supernatural  influences,  they 
do  not  perceive  the  cause  of  this  apparently  unnatural 
illumination ;  and,  upon  turning  round  and  round  in  irregu- 
lar circles,  and  still  finding  the  light  in  the  wrong  place,  they 
exhibit  signs  of  great  trepidation. 

" Warzermarrer,  wirra//^/ f '"  repeats  Mr.  Bumstead, 
spinning  wildly  until  he  brings  up  against  the  wall. 

"Ishgotb' witched,  I  b'lieve,"  pants  Mr.  McLaughlin, 
whirling  as.  frenziedly  with  his  own  lantern  dangling  behind 
him,  and  coming  to  an  abrupt  pause  against  the  opposite 
wall. 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         127 

Thus,  each  supported  against  the  stones  by  a  shoulder, 
they  breathe  hard  for  a  moment,  and  then  sink  into  a  slum- 
ber in  which  they  both  slide  down  to  the  ground.  Aroused 
by  the  shock,  they  sit  up  quite  dazed,  brush  away  the 
swarming  snakes  and  monkies,  are  freshly  alarmed  by  dis- 
covering that  they  are  now  actually  sitting  upon  that  per- 
verse light  behind  them,  and  by  a  simultaneous  impulse, 
begin  crawling  about  in  search  of  the  ladder. 

Unable  to  see  anything  with  all  the  light  behind  him,  but 
fancying  that  he  discerns  a  gleam  beyond  a  dark  object  near 
at  hand,  MX.  Bumstead  rises  to  a  standing  attitude  by  a  se- 
ries of  complex  manoeuvres,  and  plants  a  foot  on  something. 

"  I'morth'larrer  !  "  he  cries,  spiritedly. 

"Th'larrer's  on  me!"  answers  Mr.  McLaughlin,  in  evi- 
dently great  bewilderment. 

Then  ensue  a  momentary  wild  struggle  and  muffled  crash ; 
for  each  gentleman,  coming  blindly  upon  the  other,  has 
taken  the  light  glimmering  at  the  other's  back  for  the  light  at 
the  top  of  the  ladder,  and,  further  mistaking  the  other  in  the 
dark  for  the  ladder  itself,  has  attempted  to  climb  him.  Mr. 
Bumstead,  however,  has  got  the  first  step  ;  whereupon,  Mr. 
McLaughlin,  in  resenting  what  he  takes  for  the  ladder's 
inexcusable  familiarity,  has  twisted  both  himself  and  his 
equally  deluded  companion  into  a  pretty  hard  fall. 

Another  interval  of  hard  breathing,  and  then  the  organist 
of  Saint  Cow's  asks  :  "  Di'youhear  anything  drop  ?  " 

"  Yeshir,  th'larrer,  got  throwed,  f  rimpudence  to  a  gen- 


128         A  NIGHT  OF  IT   WITH  MCLAUGHLIN. 

Tm'n,"  is  the  peevish  return  of  Old  Mortarity,  who  imme- 
diately falls  asleep  as  he  lies,  with  his  lantern  under  his 
spine. 

In  his  sleep,  he  dreams  that  Bumstead  examines  him 
closely,  with  a  view  to  gaining  some  clue  to  the  mystery  of 
the  light  behind  both  their  backs ;  and,  on  finding  the  lantern 
under  him,  and  studying  it  profoundly  for  some  time,  is 
suddenly  moved  to  feel  along  his  own  back.  He  dreams 
that  Bumstead  thereupon  finds  his  own  lantern,  and  ex- 
claims, after  half  an  hour's  analytical  reflection,  "  It  must- 
'ave  slid  round  while  John  McLaughlin  was  intosh'cated." 
Then,  or  soon  after,  the  dreamer  awakes,  and  can  discern 
two  Mr.  Bum  steads  seated  upon  the  step-ladders,  with  a 
lantern,  baby-like,  on  each  knee. 

"  You  two  men  are  awake  at  last,  eh  ?  "  say  the  organists, 
with  peculiar  smiles. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,"  return  the  McLaughlins,  with  yawns. 

They  ascend  silently  from  the  cellar,  each  believing  that 
he  is  accompanied  by  two  companions,  and  rendered  mood- 
ily distrustful  thereby. 

"  Aina  maina  mona —  Mike, 
Bassalona,  bona  —  Strike  ! " 

sings  a  small,  familiar  voice,  when  they  stand  again  above 
ground,  and  a  stone  whizzes  between  their  heads. 

In  another  moment  Bumstead  has  the  fell  Smalley  by  the 
collar,  and  is  shaking  him  like  a  yard  of  carpet. 

"You  wretched  little  tarrier  !  "  he  cries  in  a  fury,  "  you've 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT  WITH  MCLAUGHLIN.         129 

been  spying  around  to-night,  to  find  out  something  about 
my  Spiritualism  that  may  be  distorted  to  injure  my  Ritual- 
istic standing." 

"  I  ain't  done  nothing ;  and  you  jest  drop  me,  or  I'll 
knock  spots  out  of  yer !  "  carols  the  stony  young  child.  "  I 
jest  come  to  have  my  aim  at  that  old  Beat  there." 

"Attend  to  his  case,  then  —  his  and  his  friend's,  for  he 
seems  to  have  some  one  with  him  —  and  never  let  me  see 
you  two  boys  again." 

Thus  Mr.  Bumstead,  as  he  releases  the  excited  lad,  and 
turns  from  the  pauper  burial-ground  for  a  curious  kind  of 
pitching  and  running  walk  homeward.  The  strange  expe- 
dition is  at  an  end :  — but  which  end  he  is  unable  just  then 

to  decide. 

6* 


130  FOR  THE  BEST. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FOR  THE   BEST. 

Miss  CAROWTHERS'S  educational  hotbed  of  female  in- 
nocence was  about  to  undergo  desolation  by  the  temporary 
dispersal  of  its  intellectual  buds  and  blossoms  to  their  native 
soils,  therefrom  to  fill  home-atmospheres  with  the  mental 
fragrance  of  "  all  the  branches."  Holiday  Week  drew  near, 
when,  as  Miss  Carowthers  Ritually  expressed  it,  "  all  who 
were  true  believers  of  the  American  Church  of  England  in 
their  hearts  would  softly  celebrate  the  devout  Yearly  Festi- 
val of  Apostolic  Christianity,  by  decking  the  Only  True 
Church  with  symbolical  evergreens  over  places  where  the 
paint  was  scratched  off,  and  receiving  New  Year's  Calls 
without  intoxicating  liquors."  In  honor  of  this  approaching 
solemn  season  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  young  men, 
the  discipline  of  Macassar  Female  College  was  slightly  re- 
laxed :  Bible-studies  were  no  longer  rigorously  inflicted  as 
a  punishment  for  criminal  absence  of  all  punctuation  from 
English  Composition,  and  any  Young  Lady  whose  father 
was  good  pay  could  actually  sneeze  in  her  teacup  without 
being  locked  into  her  own  room  on  bread-and-water  until 
she  was  truly  penitent  for  her  sin  and  wished  she  was  a 


FOR   THE  BEST.  131 

Christian.  Consequently,  an  air  of  unusual  license  per- 
vaded the  Aims-House  ;  woman's  rights  meetings  \vere  held 
at  the  heads  of  stairways  to  declare,  that,  whereas  Mary 
Amanda  Parkinson's  male  second-cousin  has  promised  to 
meet  her  at  the  railroad  station,  and  thereby  made  her  pre- 
tend to  us  that  the  letter  was  from  her  father,  when  all  the 
time  Ann  Louisa  Baker  accidentally  caught  sight  of  the 
words  "  My  Precious  Molly "  while  looking  for  her  scissors 
in  the  wrong  drawer  ;  therefore,  be  it  Resolved,  that  we  wish 
he  knew  about  one  shoulder  being  a  little  higher  than  the 
other,  (as  she  knows  the  dressmaker  told  her,)  and  about 
that  one  red  whisker  under  the  left  hand  corner  of  her  chin 
which  she  might  as  well  stop  trying  to  keep  cut  off;  dark 
assemblages  resembling  walking  bolsters  were  convened  in 
special  dormitories  at  night,  to  compare  brothers  and  tell 
how  they  Byronically  said  that  they  never  should  care  for 
women  again  after  what  they  had  sacrificed  for  them  in  the 
horse-cars  without  so  much  as  a  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  but  if 
they  ever  could  be  brought  to  liking  a  girl  now,  it  would  be 
on  account  of  her  not  pretending  to  care  for  anything  but 
money  and  a  husband's  early  grave  ;  and  very  white  parties 
of  pleasure  were  organized  in  the  halls,  at  ghostly  hours,  to 
go  down  to  the  cupboard  for  a  mince-pie  under  pretence  of 
hearing  burglars,  and  subsequently  to  drink  the  mince-pie 
from  curl-papers,  accompanied  by  whispers  of  "  H'sh  !  dou't 
eat  the  crust  so  loud,  or  Miss  Carowthers  '11  think  it's  a 
man." 


132  FOR   THE  BEST. 

In  addition  to  these  signs  of  impending  freedom,  trunks 
were  packed  in  the  rooms,  with  an  adeptness  of  getting  in 
things  with  springs  twice  as  wide  as  any  trunk,  and  of  laying 
cologne-bottles,  fans,  and  brushes,  between  objects  with 
ruffles  so  as  to  perfectly  protect  the  latter,  that  would  have 
put  the  most  conceited  old  bachelor  to  shame.  Affected 
tenderly  by  thoughts  of  a  separation  which,  so  ridiculously 
uncertain  is  human  life,  might  be  forever,  the  young  ladies 
who  couldn't  bear  each  other,  and  had  been  quite  sorry  for 
each  other  because  she  couldn't  help  it  with  such  a  natural 
disposition  and  rough  forehead  as  hers,  poor  thing  !  —  gra- 
ciously made-up  with  each  other,  in  case  they  should  not 
meet  again  until  in  heaven. 

—  You  will  not  think  any  more,  Henrietta  Tomlinson,  of 
what  I  told  you  about  Augustus  Smith's  remarks  to  me  that 
Sunday  coming  out  of  chapel.  I  didn't  let  you  know 
before,  my  dear,  but  when  he  had  the  impudence  to  say  that 
one  of  your  eyebrows  was  longer  than  the  other,  and  that 
you  had  a  sleepy  look  as  though  a  little  more  in  the  upper- 
story  wouldn't  hurt  you,  I  stood  up  for  you,  and  told  him 
he  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  talk  so  on  Sunday  about  you, 
after  you'd  taken  such  pains  to  please  him.  That's  just  all 
there  was  about  that  whole  thing,  Henrietta,  dear,  and  now 
I  hope  we  may  part  friends. 

—  Why  sliouldrtt  we,  Martha  Jenkins  ?  I'm  sure  I've 
never  been  the  one  to  be  unfriendly,  and  when  Mr.  Smith 
told  me,  that  he  guessed  my  friend  Miss  Jenkins  didn't 


FOR    THE  BEST.  133 

know  how  much  she  walked  like  a  camel,  I  was  as  sarcastic 
as  I  could  be,  and  said  I  didn't  know  before  that  gentlemen 
ever  ma.de  fun  of  natural  deformities. 

—  Yes,  Henrietta,  my  love,  I  know  how  you've  always, 
te-he  !  spoken  well  of  everybody  behind  their  backs.     Gen- 
tlemen give  you  their  confidence  as  soon  as  they  see  you, 
without  a  bit  of  fishing  for  it  on  your  part,  and  then  you 
have  a  chance  to  befriend  your  poor  friends. 

—  Oh,  well,  Martha,   darling,   there's  no  need  of   your 
getting   provoked  because  I  wouldn't  hear  you   called   a 
camel  —  he!  he!  —  after  you'd  been  so  angelic  with  him 
about  stepping  on  the  middle  back-breadth  of  your  poplin. 

*  *  *  Oh,  never  mind  it  at  all-l,  Mayistah  Sa-mith  ;  it's  of 
No-o  consequence  !  —  Te-he-he-he  ! 

—  When  is  it  to  come  off,  Miss  Tomlinson  ?    When  does 
your  Augustus  finally  reward  your  perseverance  with  his  big 
red  hand  ? 

—  I  haven't  asked  him  yet,  Precious  !  out  of  regard  for 
your  feelings.     He's  so  sensitive  about  having  any  one  think 
\u£$  jilted  her  ;  quite  ridiculous,  I  tell  him. 

—  Henrietta  Tomlinson  !  you  —  you'd  get  on  your  knees 
to  make  a  man  look  at  you  :  EVERYbody  says  that! 

—  But  then,  you  know,  Martha  Jenkins,  there  are  per- 
sons who  wouldn't  be  looked  at  much,  even  if  they  did  go 
on  their  knees  for  it,  lovey. 

—  M'm'm!    Ph'h'h  !     Please  keep   by  your   own  trunk, 
Henrietta.     I  don't  want  anything  stolen.  Miss  ! 


134:  .      FOR    THE  BEST. 

—  He !  he  !     Of  course    I'll    go,   Martha.     There's   so 
much  danger  of  my  stealing  your  old  rags  ! 

—  Dotft  provoke  me  to  slap  you,  Miss  ! 

—  Who  are  you  pushing  against,   Camel?     Aow-aouw-k  ! 
—  Ah-h-h  !  —  R-r-r-r*p,  sl'p,  p'l-'l — Miss  Carowthers'  com- 

*  II  4f      4e 

ing  !  !  —  *  * 

—  And  thus  to  usher  in  the  merry,  merry  Christmas  time 
of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  young  men. 

At  noon  on  the  Saturday  preceding  Holiday-Week,  Miss 
Carowthers,  assisted  by  her  adjutant,  Mrs.  Pillsbury,  had  a 
Reception  in  the  Cackleorium,  when  emaciated  lemonade 
and  tenacious  gingerbread  were  passed  around,  and  the 
serene  conqueror  of  Breachy  Mr.  Blodgett,  addressed  the 
assembled  sweetness.  Ladies,  the  wheel  of  Time,  who,  you 
know,  is  usually  represented  as  a  venerable  man  of  Jewish 
aspect  with  a  scythe,  had  brought  around  once  more  a  fes- 
tival appealing  to  all  the  finer  feelings  of  our  imperfect 
nature.  Throbbed  there  a  heart  in  any  of  our  bos  —  hem  ! 
—  in  any  of  the  superstructures  of  our  waists,  that  did  not 
respond  with  joy  and  gladness  to  the  sentiment  of  such  a 
season  ?  In  view  of  Christmas,  Ladies,  did  we  say,  in  the 
words  of — an  acceptable  Ritualistic  translation  from  the 
Breviary  — 

"  Day  of  vengeance,  without  morrow, 
Earth  shall  end  in  flame  and  sorrow, 
As  from  saint  and  seer  we  borrow?" 

No  ;  that  was  not  our  style.     We  saw  in  Christmas  a  happy 


FOR   THE  BEST.  135 

time  to  forgive  all  our  friends,  to  forget  all  our  enemies  at 
the  groaning  board,  and  to  keep  on  remembering  the  poor. 
Might  we  find  all  our  relatives  well  in  the  homes  we  were 
about  to  revisit,  and  ready  to  liquidate  our  little  semi-annual 
expenses  of  tuition.  Might  we  find  neighborhoods  willing 
to  take  the  <re  sumption  of  piano-practicing  in  the  forgiving 
spirit  of  the  Christmas-time,  and  to  accept  the  singing  of 
Italian  airs,  at  late  hours,  with  the  tops  of  windows  down, 
as  occurrences  not  to  be  profanely  criticized  in  sleepless 
beds  at  a  time  of  year  when  all  animosities  should  be  re- 
pressed. With  love  for  all  mankind,  Ladies,  where  it  was 
strictly  proper,  we  would  now  separate  until  after  the  Holi- 
days, wishing  each  other  a  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy 
New  Year.  Then  ensued  leave-takings  all  around ;  termin- 
ating with  a  delicate  consciousness  on  the  part  of  each 
young  lady  present  that  she  was  not  to  be  entirely  without 
escort  on  her  way  to  her  home,  inasmuch  as  there  was 
a  Bill  prepared  to  go  with  her  and  be  presented  to  her 
parents. 

A  number  of  times  had  Flora  Potts  witnessed  this  usual 
breaking  up,  without  any  other  sensation  at  herself  being 
left  behind  in  the  Aims-House  than  one  of  relief  from  inces- 
sant attempts  of  dearest  friends  to  find  out  what  Mr.  E. 
Drood  wrote  about  longing  to  clasp  her  again,  in  his  last ; 
and  on  this  occasion  she  came  near  being  really  happy  in 
having  her  dear  Magnolia  Pendragon  to  remain  with  her. 
Magnolia  had  never  mentioned  Edwin's  name  since  the 


136  FOR   THE  BEST. 

virtual  compact  between  herself,  and  her  brother,  and  Mr. 
Simpson,  on  the  Pond  shore  ;  which  was,  perhaps,  carrying 
woman's  friendship  rather  too  far  to  the  other  extreme  :  — 
she  might  at  least  have  said,  "  Are  you  thinking  of  some- 
thing commencing  with  a  D.  ?  "  once  in  a  while  :  —  but  the 
Flowerpot,  while  slightly  wondering,  of  course,  found  a 
pleasant  change  in  a  companion  of  her  own  sex  and  age 
who  was  not  always  raising  the  D.  in  conversation. 

A  lovely  scene  was  it,  and  maddening  to  masculine  imag- 
ination, when  so  many  of  Miss  Potts's  blooming  young 
schoolmates  kissed  her  good-by  in  the  porch,  and  gave  her 
a  last  chance  to  tell  them  what  he  had  written,  then.  It 
was  charming  to  see  that  willed-away  little  creature,  without 
her  enamel,  waving  farewell  to  the  stages  departing  for  the 
ferry  ;  and  to  hear  the  disappearing  ones  calling  out  to  her : 
"  By-by,  Flora,  dear  ;  Eddy  ought  to  see  you  now  with  your 
natural  complexion."  "  Au  revoir,  Pet.  You'd  better 
hurry  in  now;  here  comes  a  man!"  "Don't  stay  out  in 
the  sun  for  us,  Darling,  or  the  belladonna  may  lose  its 
effect." 

Oh,  rosebud-garden  of  girls  !  Oh,  fresh  young  blossoms, 
to  which  we  of  the  male  and  cabbage  growth  are  as  cheap 
vegetables  !•  Cling  together  while  ye  may  in  the  fair  bou- 
quet of  sweet  school  friendship,  of  musical  parlor-sisterhood. 
So  shall  your  thorns  be  known  only  to  each  other  in  such 
fragrant  clustering,  and  never  known  at  all  to  Men  unless 
they  insensately  persist  in  giving  you  their  hands. 


FOR    THE  BEST.  137 

While  the  Flowerpot  was  thus  receiving  fond  good-byes, 
Edwin  Drood,  on  his  way  to  see  her,  suffered  an  indecision, 
of  purpose  which  might  have  bred  disquiet  in  a  more  gigan- 
tic mind  than  his.  With  the  package  containing  the  memo- 
rial stay-lace  in  one  pocket,  and  his  hands  in  two  others,  he 
strode  up  the  Bumsteadville  turnpike  in  a  light  overcoat  and 
a  brown  study.  But  for  good  Mr.  Dibble's  undeniably 
truthful  picture  of  a  modern  lover's  actual  situation,  he 
might  have  allowed  matters  to  go  as  they  would,  and  sunk 
into  an  early  marriage  without  one  prayer  to  Heaven  for 
mercy.  Now,  however,  that  picture  troubled  him  even 
more  than  the  bump  which  he  had  got  upon  his  head  from 
the  tilting  table  in  the  lawyer's  office,  and  he  was  disposed 
to  send  the  stay-lace  back  to  the  candid  old  man.  "  Flora 
and  I  have  about  equal  intellects,"  reasoned  he  to  himself. 
"  Shall  I  leave  the  whole  question  to  her,  or  my  own  deci- 
sion !  One  would  be  about  as  profound  in  wisdom  as  the 
other.  Which  ?  I  guess  I'll  toss-up  for  it." 

He  stepped  aside  from  the  road,  under  a  leafless  tree,  and 
drew  from  a  pocket  a  badly  speckled  nickel  coin.  "  Heads 
for  her,  tails  for  me,"  he  said,  with  some  awe  in  his  tone. 
The  tasteful  coin  was  tossed,  and  "  Heads  "  stared  up  at 
him  from  the  frozen  ground.  "  It's  her  inning,"  he  mut- 
tered, and,  repocketing  the  money  and  his  hands,  went  on 
whistling.  Thus  the  great  crises  of  our  laborious  human 
lives  are  settled  by  the  idle  inspiration  of  a  moment,  and 
fate,  for  good,  or  evil,  comes  as  it  is  cent. 


138  FOR   THE  BEST. 

The  Flowerpot,  expecting  him,  was  ready  in  her  walking 
dress,  and,  by  tacit  permission  of  Miss  Carowthers,  the  two 
started  upon  a  promenade  for  the  nearest  confidential  cross- 
road, each  eating  half  of  an  apple  which  Mr.  Drood  had 
brought  to  disguise  his  feelings. 

"My  dear,  absurd  Eddy,"  said  Flora,  when  they  had 
arrived  in  a  secluded  lane  not  far  from  St.  Cow's  Church, 
"  I  want  to  give  you  something  very  serious,  and  oh  !  I'm 
so  ridiculously  nervous  about  doing  so,  —  especially  after 
your  giving  me  this  apple." 

"  Never  mind  the  apple,  Flora.  It  was  the  fruit  of  our 
First  Parents,  and  has  constituted  the  most  available  pie  of 
the  poor  ever  since.  Don't  allow  it  to  fetter  your  freedom 
of  speech,  and  please  try  to  eat  it  without  such  a  gashing 
noise." 

"  Thank  you,  Eddy.  You  have  always  been  liberal  with 
me.  And  now  are  you  sure  you  won't  be  angry  with  me  if 
I  give  you  something  ?  " 

He  fell  away  from  her  a  moment,  as  half  anticipating  a 
kiss,  but  promised  that  he  would  restrain  his  temper. 

"  Then  here  you  are,  Eddy ; "  and  she  drew  from  a  pocket 
in  her  dress  and  held  out  to  him  a  small  worsted  mitten. 

"  You  give  this  to  me  ?  "  he  said,  accepting  it,  and  tossing 
it  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  as  though  it  were  something 
hot. 

"  Yes,  dear,  ridiculous  friend ;  and  from  this  day  forth  let 


FOR   THE  BEST.  139 

us  give  up  the  cold  indifference  of  people  engaged  to  each 
other,  and  be  as  truly  affectionate  as  brother  and  sister." 

"  Never  get  married  ?  " 

"  Not  to  each  other." 

Under  the  ecstatic  influence  of  the  moment,  the  emanci- 
pated young  bondman  began  dancing  and  turning  somer- 
saults like  one  possessed ;  but,  quickly  remembering  himself, 
hastened  to  regain  a  perpendicular  position  at  her  side,  and 
coughed  energetically,  as  though  the  recent  gymnastics  had 
been  prescribed  for  his  cold. 

"My  own  sister  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "a  weight  is  now  lifted 
from  both  of  our  minds,  and  both  of  us  should  be  the  better 
for  the  lifting-cure.  It  is  noble  in  you  to  let  me  off  so." 

"And  ifs  perfectly  splendid  in  you,  Eddy,  to  make  no 
horrid  fuss  about  it." 

The  beautiful  contest  of  generosities  between  these  two 
young  souls  made  each  as  tender  toward  the  other  as  though 
the  parents  of  both  had  been  alive  and  frantically  opposed 
to  their  mutual  attachment. 

"We  are  both  sorry  that  we  have  ever  had  any  absurd 
engagement  between  us,"  said  Flora,  with  a  manner  of  ex- 
quisite softness,  "  and,  now,  that  we  are  like  brother  and 
sister,  we  need  not  be  all  the  time  playing  the  Pretty  with 
each  other  and  needn't  be  putting  on  our  best  things  every 
time  we  have  to  meet.  You  think  that  my  hair  always  curls 
in  this  way,  don't  you,  Eddy  ?" 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  Flora,  that  it's  all — " 


140  FOR    THE  BEST. 

"  —  False  ?  No,  you  absurd  thing  !  But  curling  irons, 
and  oil,  and  crimping  pins  have  to  be  used  hours  and 
hours." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  Edwin  Drood,  "  I  see  the  point : 
you've  had  to  make-up  for  me.  Now  I  dare  say  that  you 
have  thought  my  boots,  which  I  have  worn  in  your  company, 
were  the  right  size  for  me  ?  They're  really  one  and  a  half 
sizes  too  small,  and  almost  kill  me.  As  for  gloves,  I  never 
wear  any  except  when  I  come  to  see  you." 

"  And  my  complexion,  dear  brother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that,  darling  sister.  I  couldn't 
find  any  fault  with  that,  so  long  as  my  own  seal-ring  which 
you  thought  so  rich-looking,  was  only  plated." 

The  little  creature  burst  into  a  laugh  of  delight,  and 
pressed  his  arm  with  sisterly  enthusiasm.  "  And  we  can  be 
perfectly  honest  with  «ach  other  ;  can't  we,  Eddy  ?  As  a 
partnership  for  life  until  death  should  us  part  is  no  longer 
our  object,  we  have  no  need  to  utterly  deceive  each  other 
in  everything." 

11  No,"  answered  the  equally  happy  young  man ;  "as 
we're  not  trying  to  marry  now,  we  may  as  well  drop  the 
swindle." 

"And  just  suppose  we'd  gone  on  and  got  married,"  cried 
the  Flowerpot,  with  dancing  eyes.  "  When  it  was  too  late, 
you'd  have  found  out  what  I  really  was —  " 

"  And  you'd  have  found  me  out,"  interrupted  Edwin,  viva- 
ciously. 


FOR    THE  BEST.  141 

"  I  should  have  wanted  more  expenditure  upon  myself, 
for  giving  me  my  proper  place  in  society,  than  you,  with 
your  limited  means,  could  have  possibly  afforded  — 

"And  I  should  have  told  you  it  would  ruin  me  —  " 

"  And  that  would  have  made  me  more  disappointed  in 
you  than  ever,  and  provoked  me  to  call  you  a  pauper-mon- 
ster—  " 

"  And  then  I  would  have  twitted  you  about  being  any- 
thing but  an  heiress  yourself  when  I  married  you  —  " 

"  —  Which  would  have  thrown  me  into  hysterics  — ' 

" — Which  would  have  made  me  lock  you  up  in  your 
room,  and  leave  the  house  —  " 

"  —  For  which  /would  have  sued  you  for  an  Indiana  di- 
vorce — 

"Thus  driving  me  to  commit  suicide  —  " 

"  —  And  bringing  myself  under  a  cruel  public  prejudice 
seriously  detrimental  to  my  future  prospects." 

Gloriously  excited  and  made  nearly  breathless  by  their 
friendly  rivalry  in  thus  specifying  what  must  have  been  the 
successive  results  of  their  union  without  plenty  of  money, 
the  animated  pair  panted  at  each  other  in  a  kind  of  imagina- 
tive intoxication,  and  then  shook  hands  almost  deliriously. 

In  a  moment  after,  however,  Mr.  Drood  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  and  presented  an  aspect  of  sudden  discom- 
fiture. 

"  I  forgot  about  my  uncle,  Jack  Bumstead,"  he  said,  un 
easily.  "It  will  be  a  dreadful  blow  for  Jack  ;  he's  counted 


142  FOR   THE  BEST. 

so  much  upon  my  having  a  wife  for  him  to  flirt  with.  — 
There  he  is,  now  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Amongst  those  trees  down  there  —  Look  !  " 

In  a  small  grove,  skirting  the  road  some  distance  behind 
them,  Mr.  Bumstead  could  indeed  be  seen,  dodging  wildly 
from  one  tree  to  another  in  an  extraordinary  manner,  and 
occasionally  leaping  high  in  the  air  and  slashing  excitedly 
around  him  with  his  alpaca  umbrella.  A  hoop  from  a  bar- 
rel, possibly  cast  out  upon  the  road  by  somebody,  had,  ap- 
parently, become  entangled  around  the  legs  and  in  the 
coat-tails  of  the  Ritualistic  organist ;  and  he,  in  his  extreme 
nervous  sensibility,  precipitately  mistaking  it  for  one  of  his 
old  enemies,  the  snakes,  had  evidently  fled  headlong  with  it 
as  far  as  the  grove,  and  was  there  engaging  it  in  frantic 
single-combat. 

"  Oh,  take  me  home,  at  once,  please  ! "  begged  Flora, 
alarmed  at  the  remarkable  sight. 

"  Poor  dear  old  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  her  companion,  obe- 
diently hurrying  onward  with  her,  "  I  shall  never  have  the 
heart  to  tell  him  of  our  separation,  and  must  leave  it  to 
your  guardian.  He'll  think  he's  been  the  cause  of  it,  by 
stealing  your  heart  from  me. —  Here  he  comes  ! " 

They  had  barely  time  to  conceal  themselves  in  the  Ma- 
cassar porch,  when,  with  umbrella  in  full  play,  and  the  barrel- 
hoop  half-way  up  to  his  waist,  Mr.  Bumstead  came  bound- 
ing along  the  turnpike  with  frenzied  agility.  "  Shoo  !  'S'cat, 


FOR    THE  BEST.  143 

you  viper  !  Get  out ! "  cried  he ;  and  stopped,  with  an 
unearthly  culminating  scream  of  terror,  immediately  in 
front  of  the  Aims-House,  where  the  hoop  suddenly  fell  at 
his  feet.  A  moment  he  beat  his  fallen  enemy  with  the  um- 
brella, as  though  madly  striving  to  actually  hammer  it  into 
the  earth  ;  then,  as  suddenly,  suspended  his  attack,  stooped 
low  to  eye  his  victim  more  closely,  and,  with  a  fierce  pounce, 
had  it  in  his  grasp.  "  Was  it  only  thisss  ?  "  he  hissed,  hold- 
ing it  at  arm's  length  :  "  Sold  again  :  signed,  J.  Bumstead." 
And,  hanging  it  over  his  umbrella,  he  stalked  moodily  on- 
ward. 

"  What  a  struggle  his  whole  lonely  life  is  !  "  said  Edwin 
Drood,  coming  out  from  the  porch. 

Flora's  parting  look,  as  she  entered  the  door,  was  as 
though  she  had  said,  "  Oh  !  don't  you  understand  ?"  But 
the  young  man  went  away  unconscious  of  its  meaning. 


144  CLOVES  FOR    THREE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CLOVES    FOR  THREE. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  in  Bumsteadville.  Christmas  Eve  all  over 
the  world,  but  especially  where  the  English  language  is 
spoken.  No  sooner  does  the  first  facetious  star  wink  upon 
this  Eve,  than  all  the  English-speaking  millions  of  this  Bos- 
ton-crowned earth  begin  casting  off  their  hatreds,  meannesses, 
uncharities,  and  Carlyleisms,  as  a  garment,  and,  in  a  beauti- 
ful spirit  of  no  objections  to  anybody,  proceed  to  think  what 
can  be  done  for  the  poor  in  the  way  of  sincerely  wishing 
them  well.  The  princely  merchant,  in  his  counting-room, 
involuntarily  experiences  the  softening,  humanizing  influ- 
ence of  the  hour,  and,  in  tones  tremulous  with  unwonted 
emotion,  privately  directs  his  Chief-Clerk  to  tell  all  the  other 
clerks,  that,  on  this  night  of  all  the  round  year,  they  may, 
before  leaving  the  store  at  10  o'clock,  take  almost  any  ar- 
ticle from  that  slightly  damaged  auction-stock  down  in  the 
front  cellar,  at  actual  cost-price.  This,  they  are  to  under- 
stand, implies  their  Employer's  hearty  wish  of  a  Merry 
Christmas  to  them  ;  and  is  a  sign  that,  in  the  grand  spirit  of 
the  festal  season,  he  can  even  forget  and  forgive  those  un- 
natural leaner  entry-clerks  who  are  always  whining  for  more 


CLOVES  FOR    THREE.  145 

than  their  allotted  $7  a  week.  The  President  of  the  great 
railroad  corporation,  in  the  very  middle  of  a  growling  fit  over 
the  extra  cost  involved  in  purchasing  his  last  Legislature, 
(owing  to  the  fact  that  some  of  its  Members  had  been 
elected  upon  a  fusion  of  Radical  -  Reform  and  Honest- 
Workingman's  Tickets,)  is  suddenly  and  mysteriously  im- 
pressed with  the  recollection  that  this  is  Christmas  Eve. 
"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  so  it  is  !  "  he  cries,  springing  up  from 
his  littered  rosewood  desk  like  a  boy.  "  Here,  you  Gene- 
ral Superintendent  out  there  in  the  office ! "  sings  he, 
cheerily,  "  send  some  one  down  to  Washington  Market  this 
instant,  to  find  out  whether  or  not  any  of  those  luscious 
anatomical  western  turkies  that  I  saw  in  the  barrels  this 
morning  are  left  yet.  If  the  commercial  hotels  down-town 
haven't  taken  them  all,  buy  every  remaining  barrel  at  once  ! 
Not  a  man  nor  boy  in  this  Company's  service  shall  go 
home  to-night  without  his  Christmas  dinner  in  his  hand  ! 
Lively,  now,  Mr.  Jones  !  and  just  oblige  me  by  picking  out 
one  of  the  birds  for  yourself,  if  you  can  find  one  at  all  less 
blue  than  the  rest.  It's  Christmas  Eve,  sir;  and  upon  my 
word  I'm  really  sorry  our  boys  have  to  work  to-morrow  as 
usual.  Ah  !  it's  hard  to  be  poor,  Jones  !  A  merry  Christ- 
mas to  us  all.  Here's  my  carriage  come  for  me."  And 
even  in  returning  to  their  homes  from  their  daily  avoca- 
tions, on  Christmas  Eve,  how  the  most  grasping,  penurious 
souls  of  men  will  soften  to  the  world's  unfortunate  !  Who 
is  this  poor  old  lady,  looking  as  though  she  might  be  some- 
7 


146  CLOVES  FOR    THREE. 

body's  grandmother,  sitting  here  by  the  wayside,  shivering, 
on  such  an  Eve  as  this  ?  No  home  to  go  to  ?  —  Relations 
all  dead  ?  —  Eaten  nothing  in  two  days  ?  —  Walked  all  the 
way  from  the  Woman's  Rights  Bureau  in  Boston?  —  Dear 
me  ?  can  there  be  so  much  suffering  on  Christmas  Eve  ?  I 
must  do  something  for  her,  or  my  own  good  dinner  to-mor- 
row will  be  a  reproach  to  me.  "Here!  Policeman!  just 
take  this  poor  old  lady  to  the  Station-House,  and  give  her  a 
good  warm  home  there  until  morning.  There !  cheer-up, 
Aunty ;  you're  all  right  now.  This  gentleman  in  the  uni- 
form has  promised  to  take  care  of  you.  Merry  Christ- 
mas ! "  —  Or,  when  at  home,  and  that  extremely  bony  lad, 
in  the  thin  summer  coat,  chatters  to  you,  from  the  snow  on 
the  front-stoop,  about  the  courage  he  has  taken  from  Christ- 
mas Eve  to  ask  you  for  enough  to  get  a  meal  and  a  night's- 
lodging  —  how  differently  from  your  ordinary  style  does  a 
something  soft  in  your  breast  impel  you  to  treat  him.  "No 
work  to  be  obtained  ?  "  you  say,  in  a  light  tone,  to  cheer 
him  up.  "  Of  course  there's  none  here,  my  young  friend. 
All  the  work  here  at  the  East  is  for  foreigners,  in  order  that 
they  may  be  used  at  election-time.  As  for  you,  an  Ameri- 
can boy,  why  don't  you  go  to  h 1  mean  to  the  West. 

Go  West,  young  man  !  Buy  a  good,  stout  fanning  outfit, 
two  or  three  serviceable  horses,  or  mules,  a  portable  house 
made  in  sections,  a  few  cattle,  a  case  of  fever  medicine  — - 
and  then  go  out  to  the  far  West  upon  Government-land. 
You'd  better  go  to  one  of  the  hotels  for  to-night,  and  then 


CLOVES  FOR   THREE.  147 

purchase  Mr.  Greeley's  '  What  I  Know  About  Farmiiig', 
and  start  as  soon  as  the  snow  permits  in  the  morning. 
Here  are  ten  cents  for  you.  Merry  Christmas  ! "  —  Thus 
to  honor  the  natal  Festival  of  Him  —  the  Unselfish  incar- 
nate, the  Divinely  insighted — Who  said  unto  the  lip-server  : 
Sell  all  that  thou  hast,  and  give  it  to  the  Poor,  and  follow 
Me;  and  from  Whom  the  lip-server,  having  great  posses- 
sions, went  away  exceeding  sorrowful  ! 

Three  men  are  to  meet  at  dinner  in  the  Bumsteadian 
apartments  on  this  Christmas  Eve.  How  has  each  one 
passed  the  day  ? 

Montgomery  Pendragon,  in  his  room  in  Gospeller's  Gulch, 
reads  Southern  tragedies  in  an  old  copy  of  the  New  Orleans 
Picayune,  until  two  o'clock,  when  he  hastily  tears  up  all  his 
soiled  paper  collars,  packs  a  few  things  into  a  travelling 
satchel,  and,  with  the  latter  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and  a 
Kehoe's  Indian  club*  in  his  right  hand,  is  met  in  the  hall  by 
his  tutor,  the  Gospeller. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that  club,  Mr.  Montgomery?" 
asks  the  Reverend  Octavius,  hastily  stepping  back  into  a 
corner. 

"I've  bought  it  to  exercise  with  in  the  open  air,"  answers 
the  young  Southerner,  playfully  denting  the  wall  just  over 
his  tutor's  head  with  it. 

"After  this  dinner  with  Mr.  Drood,  at  Bumstead's,  I 
reckon  I  shall  start  on  a  walking  match,  and  I've  procured 

*.In  the  original,  a  very  heavy,  iron-shod  walking-stick. 


148  CLOVES  FOR    THREE. 

the  club  for  exercise  as  I  go.  Thus : "  He  twirls  it  high 
in  the  air,  grazes  Mr.  Simpson's  nearer  ear,  hits  his  own 
head  accidentally,  and  breaks  the  glass  in  the  hat-stand. 

"  I  see  !  I  see  ! "  says  the  Gospeller,  rather  hurriedly. 
"  Perhaps  you  had  better  be  entirely  alone,  and  in  the  open 
country,  when  you  take  that  exercise." 

Rubbing  his  skull  quite  dismally,  the  prospective  pedes- 
trian goes  straightway  to  the  porch  of  the  Aims-House,  and 
there  waits  until  his  sister  comes  down  in  her  bonnet  and 
joins  him. 

"  Magnolia,"  he  remarks,  hastening  to  be  the  first  to 
speak,  in  orfler  to  have  any  conversational  chance  at  all 
with  her,  "  it  is  not  the  least  mysterious  part  of  this  Mystery 
of  ours,  that  keeps  us  all  out  of  doors  so  much  in  the  un- 
seasonable winter  month  of  December,*  and  now  I  am  pe- 
culiarly a  meteorological  martyr  in  feeling  obliged  to  go 
walking  for  two  whole  freezing  weeks,  or  until  the  Holidays 
and  this  —  this  marriage-business,  are  over.  I  didn't  tell 
Mr.  Simpson,  but  my  real  purpose,  I  reckon,  in  having  this 
club,  is  to  save  myself,  by  violent  exercise  with  it,  from  per- 
ishing of  cold." 

"Must  you  do  this,  Montgomery?"  asks  his  colloquial 


*  In  the  original  English  story  there  is,  considering  the  bitter  time  of  year  given,  a 
truly  extraordinary  amount  of  solitary  sauntering,  social  strolling,  confidential  confab- 
ulating, evening-rambling,  and  general  lingering,  in  the  open  air.  To  "adapt"  this 
novel  peculiarity  to  American  practice,  without  some  little  violation  of  probability,  is 
what  the  present  conscientious  Adapter  finds  almost  the  hardest  artistic  requirement 
of  his  task. 


CLOVES  FOR   THREE.  149 

sister,  thoughtfully.  "  Perhaps  if  I  were  to  talk  long  enough 
with  you  —  " 

"  —  You'd  literally  exhaust  me  into  not  going?  Cer- 
tainly you  would, "  he  returns,  confidently.  "  First,  my 
head  would  ache  from  the  constant  noise;  then  it  would 
spin  ;  then  I  should  grow  faint  and  hear  you  less  distinctly ; 
then  your  voice,  although  you  were  talking-on  the  same  as 
ever,  would  sound  like  a  mere  steady  hum  to  me ;  then  I 
should  become  unconscious,  and  be  carried  home,  with  you 
still  whispering  in  my  ear.  But  do  not  talk,  Magnolia ;  for 
I  must  do  the  walking-match.  The  prejudice  here  against 
my  Southern  birth  makes  me  a  damper  upon  the  festivities 
of  others  at  this  general  season  of  forgiveness  to  all  man- 
kind, and  I  can't  stand  the  sight  of  that  Drood  and  Miss 
Potts  together.  I'd  better  stay  away  until  they  have  gone." 

He  pauses  a  moment,  and  adds,  "  I  wish  I  were  not 
going  to  this  dinner,  or  that  I  were  not  carrying  this  club 
there." 

He  shakes  her  hand  and  his  own  head,  glances  up  at  the 
storm-clouds  now  gathering  in  the  sky,  goes  onward  to  Mr. 
Bumstead's  boarding-house,  halts  at  the  door  a  moment  to 
moisten  his  right  hand  and  balance  the  Indian  club  in  it, 
and  then  enters. 

Edwin  Brood's  day  before  merry  Christmas  is  equally 
hilarious.  Now  that  the  Flowerpot  is  no  longer  on  his 
mind,  the  proneness  of  the  masculine  nature  to  court  mis- 
fortune causes  him  to  think  seriously  of  Miss  Pendragon, 


150  CLOVES  FOR    THREE. 

and  wonder  whether  she  would  make  a  wife  to  ruin  a  man  ? 
It  will  be  rather  awkard,  he  thinks,  to  be  in  Bumsteadville 
for  a  week  or  two  after  the  Macassar  young  ladies  shall 
have  heard  of  his  matrimonial  disengagement,  as  they  will 
all  be  sure  to  sit  symmetrically  at  every  front  window  in  the 
Aims-House  whenever  he  tries  to  go  by ;  and  he  resolves  to 
escape  tha»  danger  by  starting  for  Egypt,  Illinois,  immedi- 
ately after  he  has  seen  Mr.  Dibble  and  explained  the  situa- 
tion to  him.  Finding  that  his  watch  has  run  down,  he  steps 
into  a  jeweller's  to  have  it  wound,  and  is  at  once  subjected 
to  insinuating  overtures  by  the  man  of  gems.  What  does 
he  think  of  this  ring,  which  is  exactly  the  thing  for  some 
particular  Occasions  in  Life  ?  It  is  made  of  the  metal  for 
which  nearly  all  young  couples  marry  now-a-days,  is  as  end- 
less as  their  disagreements,  and,  by  the  new  process,  can  be 
stretched  to  fit  the  Second  wife's  hand  also.  Or  look  at  this 
pearl  set.  Very  chaste,  really  soothing  •  intended  as  a  pres- 
ent from  a  Husband  after  First  Quarrel.  These  cameo  ear- 
rings were  never  known  to  fail.  Judiciously  presented,  in  a 
velvet  case,  they  may  be  depended  upon  to  at  once  divert  a 
young  Wife  from  Returning  to  her  Mother,  as  she  has 
threatened.  Ah  !  Mr.  Drood  cares  for  no  more  jewellery  than 
his  watch,  chain,  and  seal-ring  ?  To  be  sure  !  when  Mr. 
Bumstead  was  in  yesterday  for  the  regular  daily  new  crystal 
in  his  own  watch — how  docs  he  break  so  many  ! — he  said 
that  his  beloved  nephews  wore  only  watches  and  rings,  or 
he  would  buy  paste  breastpins  for  them.  Your  oroide  is 


CLOVES  FOR    THREE.  151 

now  wound  up,  Mr.  Drood,  and  set  at  twenty  minutes  past 
Two. 

"  Dear  old  Jack  ! "  thinks  Edwin  to  himself,  pocketing  his 
watch  as  he  walks  away ;  "  he  thinks  just  twice  as  much  of 
me  as  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  I  should  feel  doubly 
grateful." 

As  dusk  draws  on,  the  young  fellow,  returning  from  a 
long  walk,  espies  an  aged  Irish  lady  leaning  against  a  tree 
on  the  edge  of  the  turnpike,  with  a  pipe  upside-down  in  her 
mouth,  and  her  bonnet  on  wrong-side  afore. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?  "  he  asks  kindly. 

"  Divil  a  sick,  gintlemen,"  is  the  answer,  with  a  slight 
catch  of  the  voice,  —  "  bless  the  two  of  yez  ! " 

Edwin  Drood  can  scarcely  avoid  a  start,  as  he  thinks  to 
himself,  "  Good  Heaven  !  how  much  like  Jack  ! " 

"  Do  you  eat  cloves,  madame?"  he  asks,  respectfully. 

" Cloves  is  it,  honey?  ah,  thin,  I  do  that,  whin  I'm  ex- 
pectin'  company.  Odether-nodether,  but  I've  come  here 
the  day  from  New  York  for  nothing.  Sure  phat's  the  names 
of  you  two  darlints  ?  " 

"  Edwin,"  he  answers,  in  some  wonder,  as  he  hands  her 
a  currency  stamp,  which,  on  account  of  the  large  hole  worn 
in  it,  he  has  been  repeatedly  unable  to  pass  himself. 

"  Eddy  is  it  ?  Och  hone,  och  hone,  machree  ! "  exclaims 
the  venerable  woman,  hanging  desolately  around  the  tree  by 
her  arms  while  her  bonnet  falls  over  her  left  ear  :  "I've 
heard  that  name  threatened.  Och,  acushla  wirasthu  ! " 


152  CLOVES  FOR    THREE. 

Believing  that  the  matron  will  be  less  agitated  if  left 
alone,  and,  probably,  able  to  get  a  little  roadside  sleep,  Ed- 
win Drood  passes  onward  in  deep  thought.  The  boarding- 
house  is  reached,  and  he  enters. 

J.  Bumstead's  day  of  the  dinner  is  also  marked  by  exhil- 
arating experiences.  With  one  coat-tail  unwittingly  tucked 
far  up  his  back,  so  that  it  seems  to  be  amputated,  and  his 
alpaca  umbrella  under  his  arm,  he  enters  a  grocery-store  of 
the  village,  and  abstractedly  asks  how  strawberries  are  sell- 
ing to-day  ?  Upon  being  reminded  that  fresh  fruit  is  very 
scarce  in  late  December,  he  changes  his  purpose,  and  orders 
two  bottles  of  Bourbon  flavoring-extract  sent  to  his  address. 
And  now  he  wishes  to  know  what  they  are  charging  for 
sponges?  They  tell  him  that  he  must  seek  those  articles  at 
the  druggist's,  and  he  compromises  by  requesting  that  four 
lemons  be  forwarded  to  his  residence.  Have  they  any  good 
Canton-flannel,  suitable  for  a  person  of  medium  complex- 
ion ?  —  No  ?  —  Very  well,  then :  send  half  a  pound  of  cloves 
to  his  house  before  night. 

There  are  Ritualistic  services  at  Saint  Cow's,  and  he 
renders  the  organ-accompaniments  with  such  unusual  free- 
dom from  reminiscences  of  the  bacchanalian  repertory,  that 
the  Gospeller  is  impelled  to  compliment  him  as  they  leave 
the  cathedral. 

"You're  in  fine  tone  to-day,  Bumstead.  Not  quite  so 
much  volume  to  your  playing  as  sometimes,  but  still  the 
tune  could  be  recognized." 


CLOVES  FOR    THREE.  153 

"  That,  sir, "  answers  the  organist,  explainingly,  "  was  be- 
cause I  held  my  right  wrist  firmly  with  my  left  hand,  and 
played  mostly  with  only  one  finger.  The  method,  I  find,  se- 
cures steadiness  of  touch  and  precision  in  hitting  the  right 
key." 

"I  should  think  it  would,  Mr.  Bumstead.  You  seem  to 
be  more  free  than  ordinarily  from  .your  occasional  indisposi- 
tion." 

"  I  am  less  nervous,  Mr.  Simpson,"  is  the  reply.  "  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  swear  off,  sir.  —  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do,  Simpson,"  continues  the  Ritualistic  organist,  with  sud- 
den confidential  affability.  "  I'll  make  an  agreement  with 
you,  that  whichever  of  us  catches  the  other  slipping-up  first 
in  the  New  Year,  shall  be  entitled  to  call  for  whatever  he 
wants." 

"  Bless  me !  I  don't  understand,"  ejaculates  the  Gos- 
peller. 

"No  matter,  sir.  No  matter!"  retorts  the  mystic  of  the 
organ-loft,  abruptly  returning  to  his  original  gloom.  "  My 
company  awaits  me,  and  I  must  go." 

"  Excuse  me,"  cries  the  Gospeller,  turning  back  a  mo- 
ment ;  "but  what's  the  matter  with  your  coat?" 

The  other  discovers  the  condition  of  his  tucked-up  coat- 
tail  with  some  fierceness  of  aspect,  but  immediately  explains 
that  it  must  have  been  caused  by  his  sitting  upon  a  folding- 
chair just  before  leaving  home. 

So,  humming  a  savage  tune  in  make-believe  of  no  em- 
7* 


154  CLOVES  FOR   THREE.    • 

barrassment  at  all  in  regard  to  his  recently  disordered  gar- 
ment, Mr.  Bumstead  reaches  his  boarding-house.  At  the 
door  he  waits  long  enough  to  examine  his  umbrella,  with 
scowling  scrutiny,  in  every  rib  ;  and  then  he  enters. 

Behind  the  red  window-curtain  of  the  room  of  the  dinner- 
party shines  the  light  all  night,  while  before  it  a  wailing  De- 
cember gale  rises  higher  and  higher.  Through  leafless 
branches,  under  eaves  and  against  chimneys,  the  savage 
wings  of  the  storm  are  beaten,  its  long  fingers  ^caught,  and 
its  giant  shoulder  heaved.  Still,  while  nothing  else  seems 
steady,  that  light  behind  the  red  curtain  burns  unextin- 
guished  ;  the  reason  being  that  the  window  is  closed  and  the 
wind  cannot  get  at  it. 

At  morning  comes  a  hush  on  nature ;  the  sun  arises  with 
that  innocent  expression  of  countenance  which  causes  some 
persons  to  fancy  that  it  resembles  Mr.  Greeley  after  shav- 
ing ;  and  there  is  an  evident  desire  on  the  part  of  the  wind 
to  pretend  that  it  has  not  been  up  all  night.  Fallen  chim- 
neys, however,  expose  the  airy  fraud,  and  the  clock  blown 
completely  out  of  Saint  Cow's  steeple  reveals  what  a  high 
time  there  has  been. 

Christmas  morning  though  it  is,  Mr.  McLaughlin  is  sum- 
moned from  his  family-circle  of  pigs,  to  mount  the  Ritua- 
listic church  and  see  what  can  be  done  ;  and  while  a  small 
throng  of  early  idlers  a  restaring  up  at  him  from  Gospeller's 
Gulch,  Mr.  Bumstead,  with  his  coat  on  in  the  wrong  way, 


CLOVES  FOR    THREE.  155 

and  a  wet  towel  on  his  head,  comes  tearing  in  amongst 
them  like  a  congreve  rocket. 

"Where's  them  nephews?  —  where's  Montgomeries ?  — 
where's  that  umbrella  ?  "  howls  Mr.  Bumstead,  catching  the 
first  man  he  sees  by  the  throat,  and  driving  his  hat  over  his 
eyes. 

"What's  the  matter,  for  goodness  sake  ?"  calls  the  Gos- 
peller from  the  window  of  his  house.  "  Mr.  Pendragon  has 
gone  away  on  a  walking  match.  Is  not  Mr.  Drood  at  home 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Norrabit'  v  it,"  pants  the  organist,  releasing  his  man's 
throat,  but  still  leaning  with  heavy  affection  upon  him  : 
"  m'nephews  wen'  out  with'm — f  r  li'lle  walk  —  er  mir' night ; 
an'  've  norseen'm  —  since." 

There  is  no  more  looking  up  at  Saint  Cow's  steeple  with 
a  McLaughlin  on  it  now.  All  eyes  fix  upon  the  agitated 
Mr.  Bumstead,  as  he  wildly  attempts  to  step  over  the  tall 
paling  of  the  Gospeller's  fence  at  a  stride,  and  goes  crashing 
headlong  through  it  instead. 


156  "SPOTTED." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  SPOTTED." 

WHEN  the  bell  of  St.  Cow's  began  ringing  for  Ritualistic 
morning  service,  with  a  sound  as  of  some  incontinently 
rambling  daughter  of  the  lacteal  herd — now  near  at  hand  in 
cracked  dissonance,  as  the  wind  blows  hither  ;  now  afar,  in 
tinkling  distance,  as  the  wind  blows  hence  —  Montgomery 
Pendragon  was  several  miles  away  from  Bumsteadville  upon 
his  walking-match,  with  head  already  bumped  like  a  pine- 
apple, and  face  curiously  swelled,  from  amateur  practice  with 
the  Indian  Club.  Being  by  that  time  cold  enough  for  break- 
fast, and  willing  to  try  the  virtues  of  some  soothing  applica- 
tion to  his  right  eye,  which,  from  a  bruise  just  below  it,  was 
nearly  closed,  the  badly  bandaged  young  man  suspended  his 
murderous  calisthenics  at  the  door  of  a  rustic  hotel,  and 
there  entered  to  secure  a  wayside  meal. 

The  American  country  "hotel,"  or  half-way  house,  is,  per- 
haps, one  of  the  most  depressing  fictions  ever  encountered 
by  stage-passenger,  or  pedestrian  afield  :  and  depends  so 
exclusively  upon  the  imagination  for  any  earthly  distinction 
from  the  retired  and  neglected  private  hiding-place  of  some 
decayed  and  morbid  agricultural  family,  that  only  the  conven- 


"SPOTTED."  157 

tional  swinging  sign-board  before  the  door  saves  the  cogni- 
zant mind  from  a  painfully  dense  confusion.  Smelling  about 
equally  of  eternal  wash-day,  casual  cow-shed,  and  passing 
feather-bed,  it  sustains  a  lank,  middle-aged,  gristly  man  to  * 
come  out  at  the  same  hour  every  day  and  grunt  unintelligibly 
at  the  stage-driver,  an  expressionless  boy  in  a.  bandless 
straw  hat  and  no  shoes,  to  stare  blankly  from  the  doorway  at 
the  same  old  pole-horse  he  has  mechanically  thus  inspected 
from  infancy,  and  one  speckled  hen  of  mature  years  to  poise 
observingly  on  single  leg  at  the  head  of  the  shapeless  black 
dog  asleep  at  the  sunny  end  of  the  low  wooden  stoop.  It 
is  the  one  rural  spot  on  earth  where  a  call  for  fresh  eggs 
evokes  remonstrative  and  chronic  denial ;  where  chickens 
for  dinner  are  sternly  discredited  as  mere  freaks  of  legendary 
romance,  and  an  order  for  a  glass  of  new  milk  is  incredu- 
lously answered  by  a  tumblerful  of  water  which  tastes  of 
whitewash-brush.  Whosoever  sleeps  there  of  a  night  shall 
be  crowded  by  walls  which  rub  off,  into  a  faint  feather-bed  of 
the  flavor  and  consistency  of  geese  used  whole,  and  have 
for  his  feverish  breakfast  in  the  morning  a  version  of  broiled 
ham  as  racy  of  attic-salt  as  the  rasher  of  Bacon's  essays. 
And  to  him  who  pays  his  bill  there,  ere  he  straggles  weakly 
forth  to  repair  his  shattered  health  by  frenzied  flight,  shall  be 
given  in  change  such  hoary  ten-cent  shreds  of  former  postal 
currency  as  he  has  not  hitherto  deemed  credible,  sticking 
together  in  inextricable  conglomeration  by  such  fragments 
of  fish-scales  as  he  never  before  believed  could  be  gathered 


158  "SPOTTED." 

by  handled  small-money  from  palms  not  sufficiently  washed 
after  piscatorial  diversion. 

It  was  in  at  a  country  hotel,  then,  that  the  young  Southern 
pedestrian  turned  for  temporary  rest  and  a  meal,  and  pitiless 
was  the  cross-examination  instituted  by  the  inevitable  lank, 
middle-aged,  gristly  man,  before  he  could  reconcile  it  with 
his  duty  as  a  cautious  public  character  to  reveal  the  treasures 
of  the  larder.  Those  bumps  on  the  head,  that  swollen  eye, 
and  nose,  came — did  they?  —  from  swinging  this  here  club 
for  exercise.  Well,  he  wanted  to  know,  now  !  People  gen- 
erally used  two  of  the  clubs  at  once  —  did  they  ? —  but  one 
was  enough  fora  beginner.  Well,  he  wanted  to  know,  now! 
Could  he  supply  a  couple  of  poached  eggs  and  a  cup  of  milk  ? 
No,  young  man  ;  but  a  slice  of  corned  pork  and  a  bowl  of 
tea  were  within  the  resources  of  the  establishment. 

When  at  length  upon  the  road  again,  the  bruised  youth  re- 
solved to  follow  a  cattle-track  "  across  lots,"  for  the  greater 
space  in  which  to  exercise  with  his  Indian  Club  as  he  walked. 
Like  any  other  novice  in  the  practice,  he  could  not  divest 
his  mind  of  the  impression,  that  the  frightful  thumps  he  con- 
tinually received,  in  twirling  the  merciless  thing  around  and 
behind  his  devoted  head,  were  due  to  some  kind  of  crowd- 
ing influence  from  the  boundaries  on  either  side  the  way,  and 
it  was  to  gain  relief  from  such  damaging  contractions  of  area 
that  he  left  the  highway  for  the  wider  wintry  fields.  Going 
onward  in  these  latter  at  an  irregular  pace ;  sometimes  mo- 
mentarily stunned  into  a  rangy  stagger  by  a  sounding  blow 


"SPOTTED."  159 

on  the  cerebrum  or  the  cerebellum ;  and  again,  irritated 
almost  to  a  run  by  contusion  of  shoulder-blade  or  funny- 
bone  ;  he  finally  became  aware  that  two  men  were  following 
him  through  the  lots,  and  that  with  a  closeness  of  attention 
indicating  more  than  common  interest.  To  the  perception 
of  his  keenly  sensitive  Southern  nature  they  at  once  became 
ribald  Yankee  vandals,  hoping  for  unseemly  amusement 
from  the  detection  of  some  awkwardness  in  the  Indian  club- 
play  of  a  defeated  but  not  conquered  Southern  Gentleman  ; 
and,  in  the  haughty  sectional  pride  of  his  contemptuous  soul, 
he  indignantly  determined  to  show  not  the  least  conscious- 
ness of  their  disrespectful  observation.  Twirling  the  club 
around  and  around  his  battered  head  with  increasing  velocity, 
he  smiled  scornfully  to  himself,  nor  deigned  a  single  back- 
ward glance  at  the  one  of  his  two  followers  who  approached 
more  rapidly  than  the  other.  He  heard  the  hindermost  say 
to  the  foremost,  "  Leave  him  alone,  I  tell  you,  and  he'll 
knock  himself  down  in  a  minute,"  and,  in  a  passionately 
reckless  effort  of  sheer  bravado  to  catch  the  club  from  one 
hand  with  the  other  while  it  yet  circled  swiftly  over  his  skull, 
he  accidentally  brought  the  ungovernable  weapon  into  tre- 
mendous contact  with  the  top  of  his  head,  and  dashed  him- 
self violently  to  the  earth. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  he'd  do  it?"  cried  the  hindermost  of 
the  two  strangers,  coming  up ;  while  the  other  coolly  seated 
himself  upon  the  prostrated  victim.  "These  here  Indian 
clubs  always  throw  a  man  if  he  ain't  got  muscle  in  his  arms  ; 


100  "SPOTTED." 

and  this  here  little  Chivalry  has  got  arms  like  a  couple  of 
canes." 

"  Arise  from  me  instantly,  fellow !  You're  sitting  upon 
my  breast-pin,"  exclaimed  Montgomery  to  the  person  sitting 
upon  him. 

They  suffered  him  to  regain  his  feet,  which  he  did  with  ex- 
treme hauteur,  and  surveyed  his  bumped  head  and  swollen 
countenance  with  undisguised  wonder. 

"  How  dare  you  treat  a  Southerner  in  this  way  ?  "  con- 
tinued the  young  man,  his  head  aching  inexpressibly.  "  I 
thought  the  war  was  over  long  ago.  If  money  is  your  ob- 
ject, seek  out  a  citizen  of  some  other  section  than  mine ;  for 
the  South  is  out  of  funds  just  now,  owing  to  the  military, 
outrages  of  Northern  scorpions." 

"We're  constables,  Mr.  Pendragon,"  was  the  reply,  "and 
it  is  our  duty  to  take  you  back  to  the  main  road,  where  a 
couple  of  your  friends  are  waiting  for  you." 

Staring  from  one  to  the  other  in  speechless  wonder  at 
what  this  fresh  outrage  upon  the  down-trodden  South  could 
mean,  Montgomery  allowed  them  to  replace  his  Indian  club 
in  his  hand,  and  conduct  him  back  to  the  public  road  ;  where, 
to  his  increased  bewilderment,  he  found  Gospeller  Simpson 
and  the  Ritualistic  organist. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ? "  he  asked,  in  great 
agitation  :  "must  I  take  the  oath  of  Loyalty ;  or  am  I  re- 
quired by  Yankee  philanthropy  to  marry  a  negress  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Mr.  Bumstead  left  the  shoulder 


"SPOTTED."  161 

of  Mr.  Simpson,  upon  which  he  had  been  leaning  with 
great  weight,  and,  coming  forward  in  three  long  skips,  de- 
liberately wound  his  right  hand  in  the  speaker's  neck- tie. 

"Where  are  those  nephews  —  where' s  that  umbrella?" 
demanded  the  organist,  with  considerable  ferocity. 

"  Nephews  !  —  umbrella !"  gasped  the  other. 

"  The  Edwins  —  bone  handle,"  explained  Mr.  Bumstead, 
lurching  toward  his  captive. 

"  Mr.  Montgomery,"  interposed  the  Gospeller,  sadly,  "Mr. 
Drood  went  out  with  you  last  night,  late,  from  his  estimable 
uncle's  lodgings,  and  has  not  been  seen  since.  Where  is 
he?" 

"He  went  back  into  the  house  again,  sir,  after  I  had 
walked  him  up  and  down  the  road  a  few  times." 

"  Well,  then,  where's  that  umbrella  ?"  roared  the  organist, 
who  seemed  quite  beside  himself  with  grief  and  excitement. 

"  Mr.  Bumstead,  pray  be  more  calm,"  implored  the  Rev- 
erend Octavius. 

"Mr.  Montgomery,  this  agitated  gentleman's  nephew  has 
been  mysteriously  missing  ever  since  he  went  out  with  you 
at  midnight  :  also  an  alpaca  umbrella." 

"  Upon  my  honor,  I  know  nothing  of  either,"  ejaculated 
the  unhappy  Southerner. 

Mr.  Bumstead,  still  holding  him  by  the  neck-tie,  cast  a 
fiery  and  unsettled  glance  around  at  nothing  in  particular ; 
then  ground  his  teeth  audibly,  and  scowled. 


162  "SPOTTED." 

11  My  boy's  missing  ! "  he  said,  hissingly.  —  "  Y'understand? 
—  he's  missing.  I  must  insist  upon  searching  the  prisoner." 

In  the  presence  of  Gospeller  and  constables,  and  loftily 
regardless  alike  of  their  startled  wonder  and  the  young  man's 
protests,  the  maddened  uncle  of  the  lost  Drood  deliberately 
examined  all  the  captive's  pockets  in  succession.  In  one 
of  them  was  a  penknife,  which,  after  thoughtfully  trying  it 
upon  his  pink  nails,  he  abstractedly  placed  in  his  own  pocket. 
Searching  next  the  overwhelmed  Southerner's  travelling- 
satchel,  he  found  in  it  an  apple,  which  he  first  eyed  with 
marked  suspicion,  and  then  bit  largely  into,  as  though  half 
expecting  to  find  in  it  some  traces  of  his  nephew. 

"  I'll  keep  this  suspicious  fruit,"  he  remarked,  with  a  hol- 
low laugh ;  and,  bearing  unreservedly  upon  the  nearer  arm 
of  the  hapless  Montgomery,  and  eating  audibly  as  he  surged 
onward,  he  started  on  the  return  march  for  Bumsteadville. 

Not  a  word  more  was  spoken  until,  after  a  cool  Christmas 
stroll  of  about  eight  and  a  quarter  miles,  the  whole  party  stood 
before  Judge  Sweeney,  in  the  house  of  the  latter.  There, 
when  the  story  had  been  sorrowfully  repeated  by  the  Gospeller, 
Mr.  Bumstead  exhibited  the  core  of  the  apple,  and  tickled  the 
magistrate  almost  into  hysterics  by  whispering  very  closely 
in  his  ear,  that  it  was  a  core  curiously  similar  to  that  of  the 
last  apple  eaten  by  his  nephew ;  and,  having  been  found  in 
an  apple  from  the  prisoner's  satchel,  might  be  useful  in  evi- 
dence. Judge  Sweeney  wished  to  know  if  Mr.  Pendragon 
had  any  political  relations,  or  could  influence  any  votes ; 


"SPOTTED,1'1  163 

and,  upon  being  answered  in  the  negative,  eyed  the  young 
man  sternly,  and  said  that  appearances  were  decidedly 
against  him.  He  could  not  exactly  commit  him  to  jail  with- 
out accusation,  although  the  apple-core  and  his  political  un- 
importance subjected  him  to  grave  suspicion ;  but  he  should 
hold  the  Gospeller  responsible  for  the  youth's  appearance 
at  any  time  when  his  presence  should  be  required.  Mr. 
Bumstead,  whose  eyes  were  becoming  very  glassy,  then  sug- 
gested that  a  handbill  should  be  at  once  printed  and  circu- 
lated, to  the  effect  that  there  had  been  Lost,  or  Stolen,  two 
Black  Alpaca  Nephews,  about  five  feet  eight  inches  high, 
with  a  bone  handle,  light  eyes  and  hair,  and  whalebone  ribs, 
and  that  if  the  said  Edwin  would  return,  with  a  brass  ferule 
slightly  worn,  the  finder  should  receive  earnest  thanks,  and 
be  seen  safely  to  his  home  by  J.  Bumstead.  Mr.  Gospeller 
Simpson  and  Judge  Sweeney  agreed  that  a  handbill  should 
be  issued  :  but  thought  it  might  confuse  the  public  mind  if 
the  missing  nephew  and  the  lost  umbrella  were  not  kept 
separate. 

"  Has  either  'f  yougen'l'men  ever  been  'n  Uncle  ?"  asked 
the  Ritualistic  organist,  with  dark  intensity. 

They  shook  their  heads. 

"  Then"  said  Mr.  Bumstead,  with  great  force,  " THEN, 
genTmen,  you-knownor-wahritis-to-lose-'n-umbrella ! " 

Before  they  could  decide  in  their  weaker  minds  what  the 
immediate  connection  was,  he  had  left  them,  at  a  sharp  slant, 


164:  "  SPOTTED." 

in  great  intellectual  disturbance,  and  was  passing  out  through 
the  entry-way  with  both  his  hands  against  the  wall. 

Early  next  morning,  while  young  Mr.  Pendragon  was 
locked  in  his  room,  startled  and  wretched,  the  inconsolable 
uncle  of  Edwin  Drood  was  energetically  ransacking  every 
part  of  Bumsteadville  for  the  missing  man.  House  after 
house  he  visited,  like  some  unholy  inspector  :  peering  up 
chimneys,  prodding  under  carpets,  and  staying  a  long  time 
in  cellars  where  there  was  cider.  Not  a  bit  of  paper  or 
cloth  blew  along  the  turnpike  but  he  eagerly  picked  it  up, 
searched  in  it  with  the  most  anxious  care,  and  finally  placed 
it  in  his  hat.  Going  to  the  pond,  with  a  borrowed  hatchet, 
he  cut  a  hole  in  the  thick  ice,  lost  the  hatchet,  and,  after 
bathing  his  head  in  the  water,  declared  that  his  alpaca 
nephew  was  not  there.  Finding  an  antique  flask  in  one 
of  his  pockets,  he  gradually  removed  all  the  liquid  contents 
therefrom  with  a  tubular  straw,  but  still  could  discern  no 
.  traces  of  Edwin  Drood.  All  the  live-long  day  he  prosecuted 
his  researches,  to  the  great  discompo  sure  of  the  populace  ; 
and,  with  whitewash  all  over  the  back  of  his  coat,  and  very 
dingy  hands,  had  just  seated  himself  at  his  own  fireside  in 
the  evening,  when  Mr.  Dibble  came  in. 

"  This  is  a  strange  disappearance,"  said  Mr.  Dibble. 

"  And  it  was  good  as  new,"  groaned  the  organist,  with  but 
one  eye  open. 

"  Almost  new !  —  what  was  ?  " 

"Th'urnbrella." 


"SPOTTED."  165 

"  Mr.  Bumstead,"  returned  the  old  man,  coldly,  "  I  am 
not  talking  of  an  umbrella,  but  of  Mr.  Edwin." 

"  Yesh,  I  know,"  said  the  uncle.  "  Awright.  I'm  li'lle 
sleepy ;  tha'sall." 

"  I've  just  seen  my  ward,  Mr.  Bumstead." 

"She  puerwell,  shir?" 

"She  is  not  pretty  well.     Nor  is  Miss  Pendragon." 

"I'm  vahr*  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Bumstead,  just  audibly. 

"Miss  Pendragon  scorns  the  thought  of  any  blame  for  her 
brother,"  continued  Mr.  Dibble,  eyeing  the  fire. 

"It  had  a  bun  —  bone  handle,"  muttered  the  other, 
dreamily.  Then,  with  a  momentary  brightening,  "'Scuse 
me,  shir  :  whah'll  y3  take  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir ! "  was  the  sharp  response.  "  I'm  not  at 
all  thirsty.  But  there  is  something  more  to  tell  you.  At 
the  last  meeting  of  my  ward  and  your  nephew,  — just  before 
your  dinner  here, —  they  concluded  to  break  their  engagment 
of  marriage,  for  certain  good  reasons,  and  thenceforth  be 
only  brother  and  sister  to  each  other." 

Starting  forward  in  his  chair,  with  partially  opened  eyes, 
the  white-washed  and  dingy  Mr.  Bumstead  managed  to  get 
off  his  hat,  covering  himself  with  a  bandanna  handkerchief 
and  innumerable  old  pieces  of  paper  and  cloth,  as  he  did  so, 
from  head  to  foot ;  made  a  feeble  effort  to  throw  it  at  the 
aged  lawyer  ;  and,  then,  chair  and  all,  tumbled  forward  with 
a  crash  to  the  rug,  where  he  lay  in  a  refreshing  sleep. 


166  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AVUNCULAR   DEVOTION. 

HAVING  literally  fallen  asleep  from  his  chair  to  the  rug,  J. 
Bumstead,  Esquire,  was  found  to  have  reached  such  an 
extraordinary  depth  in  slumber,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smythe, 
his  landlord  and  landlady,  who  were  promptly  called  in  by 
Mr.  Dibble,  had  at  first  some  fear  that  they  should  never  be 
able  to  drag  him  out  again.  In  pursuance,  however,  of  a 
mode  of  treatment  commended  to  their  judgment  by  frequent 
previous  practice  with  the  same  patient,  the  good  couple 
poured  a  pitcher  of  water  over  his  fallen  head  ;  hauled  him 
smartly  up  and  down  the  room,  first  by  a  hand  and  then  by 
a  foot ;  singed  his  whiskers  with  a  hot  poker,  held  him  head- 
downward  for  a  time,  and  tried  various  other  approved 
allopathic  remedies.  Seeing  that  he  still  slept  profoundly, 
though  appearing,  by  occasional  movements  of  his  arms,  to 
entertain  certain  passing  dreams  of  single  combats,  the  quick 
womanly  wit  of  Mrs.  Smythe  finally  hit  upon  the  homoeopathic 
expedient  of  softly  shaking  his  familiar  antique  flask  at  his 
right  ear.  Scarcely  had  the  soft,  liquid  sound  therefrom  re- 
sulting been  addressed  for  a  minute  to  the  auricular  orifice, 
when  a  singularly  pleasing  smile  wreathed  the  countenance 


AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION.  167 

of  the  Ritualistic  organist,  his  eyelids  flew  up  like  the  spring- 
covers  of  two  valuable  hunting-case  watches,  and  he  suddenly 
arose  to  a  sitting  position  upon  the  rug,  and  began  feeling 
around  for  the  bed-clothes. 

"  There ! "  cried  Mrs.  Smythe,  greatly  affected  by  his 
pathetic  expression  of  countenance,  "  you're  all  right  now, 
sir.  How  worn-out  you  must  have  been,  to  sleep  so  ! " 

"Do  you  always  go  to  sleep  with  such  alarming  sudden- 
ness?" asked  Mr.  Dibble. 

"  When  I  have  to  go  anywhere,  I  make  it  a  rule  to  go  at 
once  :  —  similarly,  when  going  to  sleep,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Excuse  me,  however,  for  keeping  you  waiting,  Mr.  Dibble. 
We've  had  quite  a  rain,  sir." 

His  hair,  collar,  and  shoulders  being  very  wet  from  the 
water  which  had  been  poured  upon  him  during  his  slumber, 
Mr.  Bumstead,  in  his  present  newly-awake  frame  of  mind, 
believed  that  a  hard  shower  had  taken  place,  and  thereupon 
turned  moody. 

"We've  had  quite  a  rain,  sir,  since  I  saw  you  last,"  he 
repeated,  gloomily,  "and  I  am  freshly  reminded  of  my  irre- 
parable loss." 

"  Such  an  open,  spring-like  character  ! "  apostrophized  the 
lawyer,  staring  reflectively  into  the  grate.  \ 

"  Always  open  when  it  rained,  and  closing  with  a  spring," 
said  Mr.  Bumstead,  in  soft  abstraction  lost. 

"  WJw  closed  with  a  spring?"  queried  the  elder  man, 
irascibly. 


168  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION. 

"  The  umbrella,"  sobbed  John  Bumstead. 

"  I  was  speaking  of  your  nephew,  sir  ! "  was  Mr.  Dibble's 
impatient  explanation. 

Mr.  Bumstead  stared  at  him  sorrowfully  for  a  moment, 
and  then  requested  Mrs.  Smythe  to  step  to  a  cupboard  in 
the  next  room  and  immediately  pour  him  out  a  bottle  of 
soda-water  which  she  should  find  there. 

"Won't  you  try  some?"  he  asked  the  lawyer,  rising 
limply  to  his  feet  when  the  beverage  was  brought,  and  drink- 
ing it  with  considerable  noise. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Dibble. 

"As  you  please,  then,"  said  the  organist,  resignedly. 
"  Only,  if  you  have  a  headache,  don't  blame  me.  (Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Smythe,  you  may  place  a  few  cloves  where  I  can  get 
them,  and  retire.)  What  you  have  told  me,  Mr.  Dibble, 
concerning  the  breaking  of  the  engagement  between  your 
ward  and  my  nephew,  relieves  my  mind  of  a  load.  As  a 
right-thinking  man,  I  can  no  longer  suspect  you  of  having 
killed  Edwin  Drood." 

"  Suspect  ME  ?  "  screamed  the  aged  lawyer,  almost  leaping 
into  the  air. 

"  Calm  yourself,"  observed  Mr.  Bumstead,  quietly,  the 
while  ife  ate  a  sedative  clove.  "  I  say  that  I  can  not  longer 
suspect  you.  I  can  not  think  that  a  person  of  your  age 
would  wantonly  destroy  a  human  life  merely  to  obtain  an 
umbrella." 

Absolutely  purple  in  the  face,  Mr.  Dibble  snatched  his  hat 


AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION.  169 

from  a  chair  just  as  the  Ritualistic  organist  was  about  to  sit 
upon  it,  and  was  on  the  point  of  hurrying  wrathfully  from  the 
room,  when  the  entrance  of  Gospeller  Simpson  arrested  him. 

Noting  his  agitation,  Mr.  Bumstead  instantly  resolved  to 
clear  him  from  suspicion  in  the  new-comer's  mind  also. 

"Reverend  Sir,"  he  said  to  the  Gospeller,  quickly,  "in 
this  sad  affair  we  must  be  just,  as  well  as  vigilant.  .  I  believe 
Mr.  Dibble  to  be  as  innocent  as  ourselves.  Whatever  may 
be  his  failings  so  far  as  liquor  is  concerned,  I  wholly  acquit 
him  of  all  guilty  knowledge  of  my  nephew  and  umbrella." 

Too  apoplectic  with  suffocating  emotions  to  speak,  Mr. 
Dibble  foamed  slightly  at  the  mouth  and  tore  out  a  lock  or 
two  of  his  hair. 

"  And  I  believe  that  my  unhappy  pupil,  Mr.  Pendragon, 
is  as  guiltless,"  responded  the  puzzled  Gospeller.  "  I  do  not 
deny  that  he  had  a  quarrel  with  Mr.  Drood,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  their  acquaintance ;  but,  as  you,  Mr.  Bumstead, 
yourself,  admit,  their  meeting  at  the  Christmas-eve  dinner 
was  amicable ;  as  I  firmly  believe  their  last  mysterious  part- 
ing to  have  been." 

The  organist  raised  his  fine  head  from  the  shadow  of  his 
right  hand,  in  which  it  had  rested  for  a  moment,  and  said, 
gravely  :  "I  cannot  deny,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  had  my 
terrible  distrusts  of  you  all.  Even  now,  while,  in  my  deep- 
est heart,  I  release  Mr.  Dibble  and  Mr.  Pendragon  from  all 
suspicion,  I  cannot  entirely  rid  my  mind  of  the  impression 
that  you,  Mr.  Simpson,  in  an  hour  when,  from  undue  indul- 
8 


170      ,  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION'. 

gence  in  stimulants,  you  were  not  wholly  yourself,  may  have 
been  tempted,  by  the  superior  fineness  of  the  alpaca,  to  slay 
a  young  man  inexpressibly  dear  to  us  all." 

"  Great  heavens,  Mr.  Bumstead  !  "  panted  the  Gospeller, 
livid  with  horror,  "  I  never—" 

— "  Not  a  word,  sir ! "  interrupted  the  Ritualistic  organist, 
— "  not  a  word,  Reverend  sir,  or  it  may  be  used  against  you 
at  your  trial." 

Pausing  not  to  see  whether  the  equally  overwhelmed  old 
lawyer  followed  him,  the  horribly  astounded  Gospeller  burst 
precipitately  from  the  house  in  wild  dismay,  and  was  pres- 
ently hurrying  past  the  pauper  burial-ground.  Whether  he 
had  been  drawn  to  that  place  by  some  one  of  the  many 
mystic  influences  moulding  the  fates  of  men,  or  because  it 
happened  to  be  on  his  usual  way  home,  let  students  of 
psychology  and  topography  decide.  Thereby  he  was  hurry- 
ing, at  any  rate,  when  a  shining  object  lying  upon  the  ground 
beside  the  broken  fence,  caused  him  to  stop  suddenly  and 
pick  up  the  glittering  thing.  It  was  an  oroide  watch,  marked 
E.  D. ;  and,  a  few  steps  further  on,  a  coppery-looking  seal- 
ring  also  attracted  the  finder's  grasp.  With  these  baubles  in 
his  hand  the  genial  clergyman  was  walking  more  slowly  on- 
ward, when  it  abruptly  occurred  to  him,  that  his  possession 
of  such  property  might  possibly  subject  him  to  awkward  con- 
sequences if  he  did  not  immediately  have  somebody  arrested 
in  advance.  Perspiring  freely  at  the  thought,  he  hurried 
to  his  house,  and,  there  securing  the  company  of  Montgomery 


AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION.  171 

Pendragon,  conveyed  his  beloved  pupil  at  once  before  Judge 
Sweeney,  and  made  affidavit  of  finding  the  jewelry.  Th". 
jeweller,  who  had  wound  Edwin  Drood's  watch  for  him  01 
the  day  of  the  dinner,  promptly  identified  the  timepiece  b} 
the  innumerable  scratches  around  the  keyhole ;  Mr.  Bums- 
tead,  though  at  first  ecstatic  with  the  idea  that  the  seal-ring 
was  a  ferule  from  an  umbrella,  at  length  allowed  himself  to 
be  persuaded  into  a  gloomy  recognition  of  it  as  a  part  of  his 
nephew,  and  Montgomery  was  detained  in  custody  for  further 
revelations. 

News  of  the  event  circulating,  the  public  mind  of  Bums- 
teadville  lost  no  time  in  deploring  the  incorrigible  depravity 
of  Southern  character,  and  recollecting  several  horrors  of 
human  Slavery.  It  was  now  clearly  remembered  that  there 
had  once  been  rumors  of  terrible  cruelties  by  a  Pendragon 
family  to  an  aged  colored  man  of  great  piety ;  who,  because 
he  incessantly  sang  hymns  in  the  cotton-field,  was  sent  to  a 
field  farther  from  the  Pendragon  mansion,  and  ultimately 
died.  Citizens  reminded  each  other,  that  when,  during  the 
rebellion,  a  certain  Pendragon  of  the  celebrated  Southern 
Confederacy  met  a  former  religious  chattel  of  his  confronting 
him  with  a  bayonet  in  the  loyal  ranks,  and  immediately 
afterwards  felt  a  cold,  tickling  sensation  under  one  of  his 
ribs,  he  drew  a  pistol  upon  the  member  of  the  injured  race, 
who  subsequently  died  in  Ohio  of  fever  and  ague.  What 
wonder  was  it,  then,  that  this  young  Pendragon  with  an 
Indian  club  and  a  swelled  head  should  secretly  slaughter  the 


172  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION. 

nephew  and  appropriate  the  umbrella  of  one  of  the  most 
loyal  and  devoted  Ritualists  that  ever  sent  a  substitute  to 
battle  ?  In  the  mighty  metropolis,  too,  the  Great  Dailies  — 
those  ponderous  engines  of  varied  and  inaccurate  intelli- 
gence —  published  detailed  and  mistaken  reports  of  the 
whole  affair,  and  had  subtle  editorial  theories  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  crime.  The  Sun,  after  giving  a  cut  of  an  old- 
fashioned  parlor-grate  as  a  diagram  of  Mr.  Bumstead's  house, 
said :  "  The  retention  of  Mr.  Fish  as  Secretary  of  State 
"  by  the  present  venal  Administration,  and  the  official  coun- 
tenance otherwise  corruptly  given  to  friends  of  Spanish 
"  tyranny  who-  do  not  take  the  Sun,  are  plainly  among  the 
"  current  encouragements  to  such  crime  as  that  in  the  full  re- 
"  porting  of  which  to-day  the  Sun's  advertisements  are 
"  crowded  down  to  a  single  page,  as  usual.  Judge  Connolly, 
"  after  walking  all  the  way  from  Yorkville,  agrees  with  the 
"  Sun  in  believing,  that  something  more  than  an  umbrella 
"  tempted  this  young  Montmorency  Padregon  to  waylay 
"  Edwin  Wood.  To-morrow  we  shall  give  the  public  still 
"  further  exclusive  revelations,  such  as  the  immense  circula- 
"  tion  of  the  New  York  Sun  enables  us  especially  to  obtain, 
"  On  this,  as  upon  every  occasion  of  the  publication  of  the 
"  Sun,  we  shall  leave  out  columns  upon  columns  of  profit- 
"able  advertising,  in  order  that  no  reader  of  the  Sun  shall 
"  be  stinted  in  his  criminal  news.  The  Sun  (price  two  cents) 
"has  never  yet  been  bought  by  advertisers,  and  never  will 
"  be."  The  Tribune  said  :  "  What  time  the  reader  can  spare 


AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION.  173 

"  from  perusing  our  special  dispatches  concerning  the  pro- 
gress of  Smalleyism*  in  Europe,  shall,  undoubtedly,  be 
"given  to  our  female  reporter's  account  of  the  alleged 
"  tragedy  at  Bumperville.  There  are  reasons  of  manifest 
"propriety  to  restrain  us,  as  superior  journalists,  from  the 
"  sensational  theorizing  indulged  by  editors  choosing  to  ex- 
"  pend  more  care  and  money  upon  local  news  than  upon 
"European  rumors;  but  we  may  not  injudiciously  hazard 
"  the  assumption,  that,  were  the  police  under  any  other  than 
"  Democratic  domination,  such  a  murder  as  that  alleged  to 
"have  been  committed  by  Manton  Penjohnson  on  Baldwin 
"  Good  had  not  been  possible.  Penjohnson,  it  shall  be 
"  noticed,  is  a  Southerner,  while  young  Good  was  strongly 
"Northern  in  sentiment;  and  it  requires  no  straining  of  a 
"  point  to  trace  in  these  known  facts  a  sectional  antagonism 
"  to  which  even  a  long  war  has  not  yielded  full  sanguinary 
"satiation."  The  World  said:  " Acerrima  proximorum 
"odia;  and,  under  the  present  infamous  Radical  abuse  of 
"  empire,  the  hatred  between  brothers,  first  fostered  by  the 
"  eleutheromaniacs  of  Abolitionism,  is  bearing  its  bitter  fruit 
"  of  private  assassination  at  last.  Somewhere  amongst  our 
"  loci  communes  of  to-day  may  be  found  a  report  of  the  sup- 
"  posed  death,  at  Hampsteadville  (not  Bumperville,  as  a 
"  radical  contemporary  has  it),  of  a  young  Northerner  named 
"  Goodwin  Blood,  at  the  hands  of  a  Southern  gentleman  be-. 

*  "  Mr.  Smalley  "  was  the  amusing  name  of  a  London  reporter  to  this  entertaining 
journal,  which,  it  is  believed,  had  hopes,  at  one  time,  of  his  selection  for  the  vacant 
throne  of  Spain. 


-174:  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION. 

"longing  to  the  stately  old  Southern  family  of  Pentorrens. 
"  The  Pentorrens  are  related,  by  old  cavalier  stock,  to  the 
"  Dukes  of  Mandeville,  whose  present  ducal  descendant 
"  combines  the  elegance  of  an  Esterhazy  with  the  intellect 
"  of  an  Argyle.  That  a  scion  of  such  blood  as  this  has  re- 
"duced  a  fellow-being  to  a  condition  of  inanimate  proto- 
"  plasm,  is  to  be  regretted  for  his  sake ;  but  more  for  that  of 
"  a  country  in  which  the  philosophy  of  Comte  finds  in  a  cor- 
"  rupt  radical  pantarchy  all-sufficient  first-cause  of  whatso- 
"  ever  is  rotten  in  the  State  of  Denmark."  The  Times  said  : 
"We  give  no  details  of  the  Burnstableville  tragedy  to-day, 
"  not  being  willing  to  pander  to  a  vitiated  public  taste ;  but 
"  shall  do  so  to-morrow." 

After  reading  these  articles  in  the  Great  Dailies  with  con- 
siderable distraction,  and  inferring  therefrom,  that  at  least 
three  different  young  Southerners  had  killed  three  different 
young  Northerners  in  three  different  places  on  Christmas- 
Eve,  Judge  Sweeney  had  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  brain,  and 
discharged  Montgomery  Pendragon  as  a  person  of  undistin- 
guishable  identity.  But,  when  set  at  large,  the  helpless 
youth  could  not  turn  a  "Corner  without  meeting  some  bald- 
headed  reporter  who  raised  the  cry  of  "  Stop  thief ! "  if  he 
sought  to  fly,  and,  if  he  paused,  interviewed  him  in  a  magis- 
terial manner,  and  almost  tearfully  implored  him  to  Confess 
his  crime  in  time  for  the  Next  Edition. 

Father  Dean,  Ritual  Rector  of  St.  Cow's,  meeting  Gos- 


AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION.  175 

peller  Simpson  upon  one  of  their  daily  strolls  through  the 
snow,  said  to  him  :  — 

"  This  young  man,  your  pupil,  has  sinned,  it  appears ;  and 
a  Ritualistic  church,  Mr.  Gospeller,  is  no  sanctuary  for  sin- 
ners." 

"I  cannot  believe  that  the  sin  is  his,  Holy  Father," 
answered  the  Reverend  Octavius,  respectfully  :  "  but,  even 
if  it  is,  and  he  is  remorseful  for  it,  should  not  our  Church 
cover  him  with  her  wings  ?  " 

''There  are  no  wings  to  St.  Cow's  yet,"  returned  the 
Father,  coldly,  —  "  only  the  main  building ;  and  that  is  too 
small  to  harbor  any  sinner  who  has  not  sufficient  means  to 
build  a  wing  or  two  for  himself." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Gospeller,  bowing  his  head  and  speaking 
slowly,  "  I  suppose  he  must  go  to  the  Other  Church." 

"  What  Other  Church." 

The  Gospeller  raised  his  hat  and  spoke  reverently  :  — 

"  That  which  is  all  of  God's  world  outside  this  little  church 
of  ours.  That  in  which  the  Altar  is  any  humble  spot 
pressed  by  the  knees  of  the  Unfortunate.  That  in  which  the 
priest  is  whoso  doeth  a  good,  unselfish  deed,  even  if  in  the 
shadow  of  the  scaffold.  That  in  which  the  anthem  of  visible 
charity  for  an  erring  brother  sinks  into  the  listening  soul  an 
echo  of  an  unseen  Father's  pity  and  forgiveness,  and  the 
choral  service  is  the  music  of  kind  words  to  all  who  ever 
found  but  unkind  words  before." 


176  AVUNCULAR  DEVOTION. 

"  You  must  mean  the  Church  of  the  Pooritans,"  said  the 
Ritual  Rector. 

So,  Montgomery  Pendragon  went  forth  from  Gospeller's 
Gulch  to  seek  harbor  where  he  might ;  and,  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  Mr.  Bumstead  exhibited  to  Mr.  Simpson  the  fol- 
lowing entry  in  his  famous  Diary  :  — 

"  No  signs  of  that  umbrella  yet.  Since  the  discovery  of 
the  watch  and  seal-ring,  I  am  satisfied  that  my  umbrella,  only, 
was  the  temptation  of  the  murderer.  I  now  swear  that  I 
will  no  more  discuss  either  my  nephew  or  my  umbrella  with 
any  living  soul,  until  I  have  found  once  more  the  familiar 
boyish  form  and  alpaca  canopy,  or  brought  vengeance  upon 
him  through  whom  I  am  nephewless  and  without  protection 
in  the  rain."  « 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  177 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

INSURANCE   AND   ASSURANCE. 

Six  months  had  come  and  gone  and  done  it ;  the  weather 
was  as  inordinately  hot  as  it  had  before  been  intolerably 
cold ;  and  the  Reverend  Octavius  Simpson  stood  waiting, 
in  the  gorgeous  office  of  the  Boreal  Life  Insurance  Com- 
pany,* New  York,  for  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Melancthon 
Schenck. 

Having  been  directed  by  a  superb  young  clerk,  who 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  to  "just  stand  out  of  the  pas- 
sage-way and  amuse  yourself  with  one  of  our  Schedules  for 
awhile,"  until  the  great  life- Agent  should  come  in,  the  Gos- 
peller read  a  few  schedulistic  pages,  proving,  that  if  a  person 
had  his  life  Insured  at  the  age  of  Thirty,  and  paid  his  pre- 
miums regularly  until  he  was  Eighty-five,  the  cost  to  him 
and  profit  to  the  Company  would,  probably,  be  much  more 
than  the  amount  he  had  insured  for.  It  must,  then,  be  evi- 
dent to  him,  that,  upon  his  death,  at  Ninety,  the  Company 
would  have  received,  in  all,  sufficient  funds  from  him  to  pay 
the  full  amount  of  his  Policy  to  the  lady  whom  he  had  al- 
ways introduced  as  his  wife,  and  still  retain  enough  to 

*  In  the  original,  the  "chief  offices  of  the  Haven  of  Philanthropy." 

8* 


178  'INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE. 

declare  a  handsome  Dividend  for  itself.  Such  was  the 
sound  business-principle  upon  which  the  Boreal  was  con- 
ducted ;  and  the  merest  child  must  perceive,  that  only  the 
extremely  unlikely  coincidence  of  at  least  four  insurers  all 
dying  before  Eighty-five  could  endanger  the  solvency  of  the 
beneficent  institution. —  Having  mastered  this  convincing 
argument,  and  become  greatly  confused  by  its  plausibility, 
Mr.  Simpson  next  gave  some  attention  to  what  was  going  on 
around  him  in  the  Office,  and  allowed  his  overwrought  mind 
to  relax  cheerfully  in  contemplation  thereof.  One  of  human 
nature's  peculiarities  was  quite  amusingly  exemplified  in  the 
different  treatment  accorded  to  callers  who  were  "safe 
risks,"  and  to  those  who  where  not.  Thus  the  whisper  of 
"  Here  comes  old  Tubercles,  again  ! "  was  prevalent  amongst 
the  clerks  upon  the  entrance  of  a  very  thin,  narrow-chested 
old  gentleman,  whom  they  informed,  with  considerable  hu- 
mor, that  he  was  only  wasting  hours  which  should  be  spent 
with  a  spiritual  adviser,  in  his  useless  attempts  to  take  out  a 
Policy  in  that  office.  The  Boreal  couldn't  insure  men  who 
ought  to  be  upon  their  dying  beds  instead  of  coughing 
around  Insurance  offices.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Another  gentle- 
man, florid  of  countenance,  and  absolutely  without  neck, 
was  quickly  checked  in  the  act  of  giving  his  name  at  one  of 
the  desks ;  one  clerk  desiring  another  clerk  to  look,  under 
the  head  of  "  A,"  in  his  book,  for  "  Apoplexy?  and  let  this 
man  see  that  we  can't  take  such  a  risk  as  he  is  on  any 
terms.  A  third  caller,  who  really  looked  quite  healthy 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  179 

except  around  the  eyes,  was  also  assured  that  he  need  not 
call  again —  "Because,  you  see,"  explained  the  clerkly  wag, 
"it's  no  go  for  you  to  try  to  play  your  Bright's  Disease  on 
us/"  When,  however,  the  applicant  was  a  robustious, 
long-necked,  fresh  individual,  he  was  almost  lifted  from  his 
feet  in  the  rush  of  obliging  young  Boreals  to  show  him  into 
the  room  of  the  Medical  Examiner;  and  when,  now  and 
then,  an  agent,  or  an  insurance-broker,  came  dragging  in, 
by  the  collar,  some  Safe  Risk,  just  captured,  there  was  an 
actual  contest  to  see  who  should  be  most  polite  to  the  pant- 
ing but  healthy  stranger,  and  obtain  his  private  biography 
for  the  consideration  of  the  Company. 

The  Reverend  Octavius  studied  these  sprightly  little 
scenes  with  unspeakable  interest  until  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Schenck,  and  then  followed  that  popular  benefactor  into  his 
private  office  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  gained  a  height- 
ened admiration  for  his  species. 

"  So  you  have  come  to  your  senses  at  last ! "  said  Mr. 
Schenck,  hastily  drawing  his  visitor  toward  a  window  in  the 
side-room  to  which  they  had  retired.  "  Let  me  look  at 
your  tongue,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  Gospeller,  endeavoring 
to  draw  back. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  Let  —  me —  see  — your  —  tongue. 
Or,  stop  ! "  said  Mr.  Schenck,  seized  with  a  new  thought, 
"  I  may  as  well  examine  your  general  organization  first." 
And,  flying  at  the  astounded  Ritualistic  clergyman,  he  had 


180  INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE. 

sounded  his  lungs,  caused  a  sharp  pain  in  his  liver,  and  felt 
his  pulse,  before  the  latter  could  phrase  an  intelligent  protest. 

"  You  may  die  at  any  moment,  and  probably  will,"  con- 
cluded Mr.  Schenck,  thoughtfully ;  "  but  still,  on  the  score 
of  friendship,  we'll  give  you  a  Policy  for  a  reasonable 
amount,  and  take  the  chance  of  being  able  to  compromise 
with  your  mother  on  a  certain  per  centage  after  the  funeral." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  plagued  policies  !  "  exclaimed 
the  irritated  Gospeller,  pushing  away  the  hand  striving  to 
feel  his  pulse  again. 

"  As  you  have  expressed  a  desire  to  resign  the  guardian- 
ship of  your  wards,  Mr.  and  Miss  Pendragon,  and  I  have 
agreed  to  accept  it,  my  purpose  in  calling  here  is  to  obtain 
such  statement  of  your  account  with  those  young  people  as 
you  may  be  disposed  to  render." 

"  Ah ! "  returned  the  other,  in  sullen  disappointment. 
"  That  is  all,  eh  ?  Allow  me  to  inform  you,  then,  that  I 
have  cancelled  the  Boreal  policies  which  have  been  granted 
to  the  Murderer  and  his  sister ;  and  allow  me  also  to  re- 
mark, that  a  dying  clergyman  like  yourself  might  employ  his 
last  moments  better  than  encouraging  a  Southern  destroyer 
of  human  life." 

"  I  do  not,  cannot  believe  that  Montgomery  Pendragon  is 
guilty,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  firmly.  "  Having  his  full  confi- 
dence, and  thoroughly  knowing  his  nature,  I  am  sure  of  his 
innocence,  let  appearances  be  what  they  may.  Conse- 
quently, it  is  my  determination  to  befriend  him." 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  181 

"  And  you  will  not  have  your  life  insured  ?  " 
"  I  will  not,  sir.  Please  stop  bothering  me." 
"  And  you  call  yourself  a  clergyman !  "  cried  Mr.  Schenck, 
with  intense  scorn.  "You  pretend  to  be  a  Ritualistic  spir- 
itual guide  ;  you  champion  people  who  slay  the  innocent 
and  steal  devout  men's  umbrellas ;  and  yet  you  do  not  scru- 
ple to  leave  your  own  high-church  Mother  entirely  without 
provision  at  your  death.  —  In  such  a  case,"  continued  the 
speaker,  rising,  while  his  manner  grew  ferocious  with  deter- 
mination —  "in  such  a  case,  all  other  arguments  having 
failed,  my  duty  is  plain.  You  shall  not  leave  this  room, 
sir,  until  you  have  promised  to  take  out  a  Boreal  Policy." 

He  started,  as  he  spoke,  for  the  door  of  the  private  office, 
intending  to  lock  it  and  remove  the  key ;  but  the  unhappy 
Ritualist,  fathoming  his  design,  was  there  before  him,  and 
tore  open  the  door  for  his  own  speedy  egress. 

"  Mr.  Schenck,"  observed  the  Gospeller,  turning  and 
pausing  in  the  doorway,  "  you  allow  your  business  energy 
to  violate  all  the  most  delicate  amenities  of  private  life,  and 
will  yet  drive  some  maddened  mortal  to  such  resentful  use 
of  pistol,  knife,  or  poker,  as  your  mourning  family  shall 
sincerely  deplore.  The  articles  on  Free  Trade  and  Protec- 
tion in  the  daily  papers  have  hitherto  been  regarded  as  the 
climax  of  all  that  utterly  wearies  the  long-suffering  human 
soul ;  but  I  tell  you,  as  a  candid  friend,  that  they  are  but 
little  more  depressing  and  jading  to  the  vital  powers  •  than 
your  unceasing  mention  of  life-insurance." 


182  INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE. 

"These  are  strong  words,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Schenck, 
incredulously.  "The  editorial  articles  to  which  you  refer 
are  considered  the  very  drought  of  journalism ;  those  by 
Mr.  Greeley,  especially,  being  so  dry  that  they  are  posi- 
tively dangerous  reading  without  a  tumbler  of  water." 

"  You  brought  the  comparison  upon  yourself,  Mr.  Schenck. 
Good-day." 

Thus  speaking,  the  Reverend  Octavius  Simpson  hurried 
nervously  from  the  Boreal  temple  ;  not  fairly  satisfied  that 
he  had  escaped  a  Policy  until  he  found  himself  safely 
emerged  on  Broadway  and  turning  a  corner  toward  Nassau 
Street.  Reaching  the  latter  by-way,  after  a  brief  interval 
of  sharp  walking,  he  entered  a  building  nearly  opposite  that 
in  which  was  the  office  of  Mr.  Dibble  ;  and,  having  ascended 
numerous  flights  of  twilight  stairs  to  the  lofty  floor  imme- 
diately over  the  saddened  rooms  occupied  by  a  great  Amer- 
ican Comic  Paper,  came  into  a  spidery  garret  where  lurked 
Montgomery  Pendragon. 

"  Hard  at  it  ?  "  he  asked,  approaching  a  rickety  table  at 
which  sat  the  persecuted  Southerner,  reading  a  volume  of 
Hoyle's  Games. 

"  My  only  friend  ! "  ejaculated  the  lonely  reader,  hurriedly 
covering  the  book  with  an  arm.  "  I  am,  as  you  see,  study- 
ing law  here,  all  alone  with  these  silent  friends." 

He  waved  his  thin  hand  toward  a  rude  shelf  on  which 
were  several  well-worn  City  Directories  of  remote  dates, 
volumes  of  Patent  Office  Reports  for  the  years  '57  and  '59, 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  183 

a  copy  of  Mr.  Greeley's  Essays  on  Political  Economy,  an 
edition  of  the  Corporation  Manual,  the  Coast  Survey  for 
1850,  and  other  inflaming  statistical  works,  which  had  been 
sent  to  him  in  his  exile  by  thoughtful  friends  who  had  no 
place  to  keep  them. 

"  Cheer  up,  brother  !  "  exhorted  the  good  Gospeller,  "  I'll 
send  you  some  nice  theological  volumes  to  add  to  your 
library,  which  will  then  be  complete.  Be  not  despondent 
All  will  come  right  yet." 

"  I  reckon  it  will,  in  time,"  returned  the  youth,  moodily. 
"  I  suppose  you  know  that  my  sister  is  determined  to  come 
Jiere  and  stay  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Montgomery,  I  have  heard  of  her  noble  resolution. 
May  her  conversation  prove  sustaining  to  you." 

"There  will  be  enough  of  it,  I  reckon,  to  sustain  half  a 
dozen  people,"  was  the  despondent  answer.  "  This  is  a 
gloomy  place  for  her,  Mr.  Simpson,  situated,  as  it  is,  imme- 
diately over  the  offices  of  a  Comic  Paper." 

"  And  do-  you  think  she  would  care  for  cheerful  acces- 
sories while  you  are  in  sorrow?"  asked  the  Gospeller,  re- 
proachfully. 

"But  it  is  so  mournful  —  that  floor  below,"  persisted  the 
brother,  doubtfully.  "  If  there  were  only  something  the 
least  bit  more  lively  down  there  — say  an  Undertaker's." 

"A  Sister's  Love  can  lessen  the  most  crushing  gloom, 
Montgomery." 

A  silent  pressure  of  the  hand  rewarded  this  encouraging 


184:  INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE, 

reminder  of  sanguine  friendship;  and,  after  the  depressed 
law-student  had  promised  the  Reverend  Octavius  to  walk 
with  him  as  far  as  the  ferry  in  a  few  moments,  the  said  Rev- 
erend departed  for  a  hasty  call  upon  the  old  lawyer  across 
the  street. 

Benignant  Mr.  Dibble  sat  near  a  front  window  of  his 
office,  and  received  the  visitor  with  legal  serenity. 

"And  how  does  our  young  friend  enjoy  himself,  Mr. 
Simpson,  in  the  retreat  which  I  had  the  honor  of  commend- 
ing to  you  for  him  ?  " 

The  visitor  replied,  that  his  young  friend's  retreat,  by  its 
very  loftiness,  was  calculated  to  inspire  any  occupant  with  a 
room-attic  affection. 

"  And  how,  and  when,  and  where  did  you  leave  Mr. 
Bumstead  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dibble. 

"  As  well  as  could  be  expected ;  this  morning,  at  Bum- 
steadville,"  said  the  Gospeller,  with  answer  as  terse  and  com- 
prehensive as  the  question. 

—  "  Because,"  added  the  lawyer,  quickly,  "  there  he  is, 
now,  coming  out  of  a  refreshment  saloon  immediately  under 
the  building  in  which  our  young  friend  takes  refuge." 

"  So  he  is ! "  exclaimed  the  surprised  Mr.  Simpson, 
staring  through  the  window. 

There,  indeed,  as  indicated,  was  the  Ritualistic  organist ; 
apparently  eating  cloves  from  the  palm  of  his  right  hand  as 
he  emerged  from  the  place  of  refreshment,  and  wearing  a 
linen  coat  so  long  and  a  straw  hat  of  such  vast  brim,  that  his 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  185 

sex  was  not  obvious  at  first  glance.  While  the  two  behold- 
ers gazed,  in  unspeakable  fascination,  Mr.  Bumstead  sud- 
denly made  a  wild  dart  at  a  passing  elderly  man  with  a  dark 
sun-umbrella,  ecstatically  tore  the  latter  from  his  grasp,  and 
passionately  tapped  him  on  the  head  with  it.  Then,  before 
the  astounded  elderly  man  could  recover  from  his  amaze- 
ment, or  regain  the  gold  spectacles  which  had  been  knocked 
from  his  nose,  the  umbrella,  after  an  instant  of  keen  exam- 
ination, was  restored  to  him  with  a  humble,  almost  abjectly 
apologetic  air,  and  Mr.  Bumstead  hurried  back,  evidently 
crushed,  into  the  refreshment  saloon. 

"  His  brain  must  be  turned  by  the  loss  of  his  relative," 
murmured  the  Gospeller,  pitifully. 

"  His  umbrellative,  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Dibble. 

When  these  two  gentlemen  had  parted,  and  the  Reverend 
Octavius  Simpson  had  been  escorted  to  the  ferry,  as  prom- 
ised, by  Montgomery  Pendragon,  the  latter,  after  a  long, 
insane  walk  about  the  city,  with  the  thermometer  at  98  de- 
grees, returned  to  his  attic  in  time  to  surprise  a  stranger 
climbing  in  through  one  of  the  back  windows. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Southern  youth,  much 
struck  by  the  funereal  aspect,  sexton-like  dress,  and  inordi- 
nately long  countenance  of  the  pallid,  light-haired  intruder. 

"  Pardon  !  pardon  ! "  answered  he  at  the  window,  with 
much  solemnity.  "  I  am  a  proprietor  of  the  Comic  Paper 
down  below,  and  am  eluding  the  man  who  comes  every  day 
to  tell  me  how  such  a  paper  should  be  conducted.  He  is 


186  INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE. 

now  talking  to  the  young  man  writing  the  mail-wrappers, 
who,  being  of  iron  constitution  and  unmarried,  can  bear 
more  than  I.  There  was  just  time  for  me  to  glide  out  of 
the  window  at  sound  of  that  fearful  voice,  and  I  climbed 
the  iron  shutter  and  found  myself  at  your  casement.  — 
Hark !  Do  you  hear  the  buzz  down  there  ?  He's  now 
telling  the  young  man  writing  the  mail-wrappers  what  kind  of 
Cartoons  should  be  got-up  for  this  country.  —  Hark,  again  ! 
He  and  the  young  man  writing  the  mail-wrappers  have 
clinched  and  are  rolling  about  the  floor. —  Hark,  once  more  ! 
The  young  man  writing  the  mail-wrappers  has  put  him  out." 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  asked  Montgomery,  sincerely 
sorry  for  the  agitated  being. 

"  Alas,  no ! "  responded  the  fugitive,  in  the  tone  of  a 
cathedral  bell.  "  I  must  go  back  to  my  lower  deep  once 
more.  My  name  is  Jeremy  Bentham  ;  *  I  am  very  unhappy 
in  my  mind ;  and,  with  your  permission,  will  often  escape 
this  way  from  him  who  is  the  bane  of  my  existence." 

Being  assured  of  welcome  on  all  occasions,  he  of  the  long 
countenance  went  clanging  down  the  iron  shutter  again; 
and  the  lonely  law-student,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands, 
prayed  Providence  to  forgive  him  for  having  esteemed  his 
own  lot  so  hopelessly  gloomy,  when  there  were  Comic  Pa- 
per men  on  the  very  next  floor. 

That  night,  before  going  home  to  Gowanus,  the  old  law- 

*  In  the  original,  Jiff.  Tartar,  a  retired  naval  officer. 


INSURANCE  AND  ASSURANCE.  187 

yer  across  the  way  glanced  up  toward  Montgomery's  retreat, 
and  shook  his  head  as  though  he  couldn't  make  something 
out.  Whether  he  had  a  difficult  idea  in  his  brain,  or  only  a 
fly  on  his  nose,  was  for  the  observer  to  discover  for  himself. 


188  A  SUBTLE  STRANGER. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    SUBTLE     STRANGER. 

THE  latest  transient  guest  at  the  Roach  House  —  a  hotel 
kept  on  the  entomological  plan  in  Bumsteadville  —  was  a 
gentleman  of  such  lurid  aspect  as  made  every  beholder  burn 
to  know  whom  he  could  possibly  be.  His  enormous  head 
of  curled  red  hair  not  only  presented  a  central  parting  on 
top  and  a  very  much  one-sided  parting  and  puffing-out 
behind,  but  actually  covered  both  his  ears ;  while  his  ruddy 
semi-circle  of  beard  curled  inward,  instead  of  out,  and 
greatly  surprised,  if  it  did  not  positivly  alarm,  the  looker-on, 
by  appearing  to  remain  perfectly  motionless,  no  matter  how 
actively  the  stranger  moved  his  jaws.  This  ball  of  irhprob- 
able  inflammatory  hair  and  totally  independent  face,  rested 
in  a  basin  of  shirt  collar ;  which,  in  its  turn,  was  supported 
by  a  rusty  black  neck -tie  and  a  very  loose  suit  of  gritty 
alpaca ;  so  that,  taking  the  gentleman  for  all  in  all,  such  an 
incredible  human  being  had  rarely  been  seen  outside  of  lit- 
erary circles. 

"  Landlord,"  said  the  stranger,  to  the  brown  linen  host  of 
the  Roach  House,  who  was  intently  gazing  at  him  with  the 
appreciative  expression  of  one  who  beholds  a  comic  ghost, 


A   SUBTLE  STRANGER.  189 

—  "  landlord,  after  you  have  finished  looking  at  my  head 
and  involuntarily  opening  your  mouth  at  some  occasional 
peculiarity  of  my  whiskers,  I  should  like  to  have  something 
to  eat.  As  you  tell  me  that  woodcock  is  not  fit  to  eat  this 
year,  and  that  broiled  chicken  is  positively  prohibited  by 
the  Board  of  Health  in  consequence  of  the  sickly  season, 
you  may  bring  me  some  pork  and  beans,  and  some  crackers. 
Bring  plenty  of  crackers,  landlord,  for  I'm  uncommon  fond 
of  crackers.  By  absorbing  the  superfluous  moisture  in  the 
head,  they  clear  the  brain  and  make  it  more  subtle." 

Having  been  served  with  the  wholesome  country  fare  he 
had  ordered,  together  with  a  glass  of  the  heady  native  wine 
called  applejack,  the  gentleman  had  but  just  moved  a  slice 
of  pork  from  its  bed  in  the  beans,  when,  with  much  interest, 
he  closely  inspected  the  spot  of  vegetables  he  had  uncov- 
ered, and  expressed  the  belief  that  there  was  something 
alive  in  it. 

"Landlord,"  said  he,  musingly,  "there  is  something 
amongst  these  beans  that  I  should  take  for  a  raisin,  if  it  did 
not  move." 

Placing  upon  his  nose  a  pair  of  vast  silver  spectacles, 
which  gave  him  an  aspect  of  having  two  attic  windows  in  his 
countenance,  the  landlord  bowed  his  head  over  the  plate 
until  his  nose  touched  the  beans,  and  thoughtfully  scruti- 
nized the  living  raisin. 

"  As  I  thought,  sir,  it  is  only  a  water-bug,"  he  observed, 


190  A   SUBTLE  STKANGER. 

rescuing  the  insect  upon  his  thumb-nail.  "  You  need  not 
have  been  frightened,  however,  for  they  never  bite." 

Somewhat  reassured,  the  stranger  went  on  eating  until  his 
knife  encountered  resistance  in  the  secondary  layer  of  beans; 
when  he  once  more  inspected  the  dish,  with  marked  agita- 
tion. 

"  Can  this  be  a  skewer,  down  here  ?  "  inquired  he,  prod- 
ding out  some  hard,  springy  object  with  his  fork. 

The  host  of  the  Roach  House  bore  both  fork  and  object 
to  a  window,  where  the  light  was  less  deceptive,  and  was 
presently  able  to  announce  confidently  that  the  object  was 
only  a  hair-pin.  Then,  observing  that  his  guest  looked 
curiously  at  a  cracker,  which,  from  the  gravelly  marks  on 
one  side,  seemed  to  have  been  dug  out  of  the  earth,  like  a 
potato,  he  hastened  to  obviate  all  complaint  in  that  line  by 
carefully  wiping  every  individual  cracker  with  his  pocket 
handkerchief. 

"  And  now,  landlord,"  said  the  stranger,  at  last,  pulling  a 
couple  of  long,  unidentified  hairs  from  his  mouth  as  he  hur- 
riedly retired  from  the  meal,  "  I  suppose  you  are  wondering 
who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  was  the  frank  answer,  "  I  can't  deny  that 
there  are  points  about  you  to  make  a  plain  man  like  myself 
thoughtful.  There's  that  about  your  hair,  sir,  with  the 
middle-parting  on  top  and  the  side-parting  behind,  to  give  a 
plain  person  the  impression  that  your  brain  must  be  slightly 
turned,  and  that,  by  rights,  your  face  ought  to  be  where  your 


A   SUBTLE  STRANGER.  191 

neck  is.  Neither  can  I  deny,  sir,  that  the  curling  of  your 
whiskers  the  wrong  way,  and  their  peculiarity  in  remaining 
entirely  still  while  your  mouth  is  going,  are  circumstances 
calculated  to  excite  the  liveliest  apprehensions  of  those  who 
wish  you  well." 

"  The  peculiarities  you  notice,"  returned  the  gentleman, 
"  may  either  exist  solely  in  your  own  imagination,  or  they 
may  be  the  result  of  my  own  ill-health.  My  name  is  Tracey 
Clews,*  and  I  desire  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the  country 
for  physical  recuperation.  Have  you  any  idea  where  a  dead 
beat,t  like  myself,  could  find  inexpensive  lodgings  in  Bum- 
steadville  ?  " 

The  host  hastily  remarked,  that  his  own  bill  for  those 
pork  and  beans  was  fifty  cents ;  and  upon  being  paid, 
coldly  added,  that  a  Mrs.  Smythe,  wife  of  the  sexton  of 
Saint  Cow's  Ritualistic  Church,  took  hash-eaters  for  the 
summer.  As  the  gentleman  preferred  a  high-church  private 
boarding-house  to  an  unsectarian  first-class  hotel,  all  he  had 
to  do  was  to  go  out  on  the  road  again,  and  keep  inquiring 
until  he  found  the  place. 

Donning  his  Panama  hat,  and  carrying  a  stout  cane,  Mr. 
Clews  was  quickly  upon  the  turnpike  ;  and,  his  course  taking 

*  In  the  original,  Dick  Datchery. 

t  "  Buffer  "  is  the  term  used  in  the  English  story.  Its  nearest  native  equivalent 
is,  probably,  our  "Dead  Beat;"  meaning,  variously,  according  to  circumstances,  a 
successful  American  politician  ;  a  wife's  male  relative  ;  a  watering-place  correspondent 
of  a  newspaper  ;  a  New  York  detective  policeman  ;  any  person  who  is  uncommonly 
pleasant  with  people,  while  never  asking  them  to  take  anything  with  him ;  a  pious 
boarder ;  a  French  revolutionist. 


192  A   SUBTLE  STRANGER. 

him  near  the  pauper  burial-ground,  he  presently  perceived 
an  extremely  disagreeable  child  throwing  stones  at  pigeons 
in  a  field,  and  generally  hitting  the  beholder. 

"  You  young  Alderman !  what  do  you  mean  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed, with  marked  feeling,  rubbing  the  place  on  his  knee 
which  had  just  been  struck. 

"  Then  just  give  me  a  five-cent  stamp  to  aim  at  yer,  and 
yer  won't  ketch  it  onc't,"  replied  the  boyish  trifler.  "I 
couldn't  hit  what  I  was  to  fire  at  if  it  was  my  own  daddy." 

'•Here  are  ten  cents,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  wildly 
dodging  the  last  shot  at  a  distant  pigeon,  "and  now  show 
me  where  Mrs.  Smythe  lives." 

"  All  right,  old  brick-top,"  assented  the  merry  sprite,  with 
a  vivacious  dash  of  personality.  "  D'yer  see  that  house  as 
yer  skoot  past  the  Church  and  round  the  corner  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  that's  Smythe' s,  and  Bumstead  lives  there  too  — 
him  as  is  always  tryin'  to  put  a  head  on  me.  I'll  play  my 
points  on  him  yet,  though.  /'//  play  my  points  !  "  And 
the  rather  vulgar  young  chronic  absentee  from  Sunday- 
school  retired  to  a  proper  distance,  and  from  thence  began 
stoning  his  benefactor,  to  the  latter*  s  perfect  safety. 

Reaching  the  boarding-house  of  Mrs.  Smythe,  as  directed, 
Mr.  Tracey  Clews  soon  learned  from  the  lady  that  he  could 
have  a  room  next  to  the  apartment  of  Mr.  Bumstead,  to 
whom  he  was  referred  for  further  recommendation  of  the  es- 
tablishment. Though  that  broken-hearted  gentleman  was 


A   SUBTLE  STRANGER.  193 

mourning  the  loss  of  a  beloved  umbrella,  accompanied  by  a 
nephew,  and  having  a  bone  handle,  Mrs.  Smythe  was  sure 
he"  would  speak  a  good  word  for  her  house.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Clews  had  heard  of  his  loss  ? 

Mr.  Clews  could  not  exactly  recall  that  particular  case  ; 
but  had  a  confused  recollection  of  having  lost  several  um- 
brellas himself,  at  various  times,  and  had  no  doubt  that  the 
addition  of  a  nephew  must  make  such  a  loss  still  heavier. 

Mr.  Bumstead  being  in  his  room  when  the  introduction 
took  place,  and  having  Judge  Sweeney  for  company  over  a 
bowl  of  lemon  tea,  the  new  boarder  lifted  his  hat  politely  to 
both  dignitaries,  and  involuntarily  smacked  his  lips  at  the 
mixture  they  were  taking  for  their  coughs. 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Tracey  Clews,  in  a 
manner  almost  stealthy ;  "but,  as  I  am  about  to  take  sum- 
mer board  with  the  lady  of  this  house,  I  beg  leave  to  inquire 
if  she  and  the  man  she  married  are  strictly  moral  except  in 
having  cold  dinner  on  Sunday  ?  " 

Mr.  Bumstead,  who  sat  very  limply  in  his  chair,  said  that 
she  was  a  very  good  woman,  a  very  good  woman,  and  would 
spare  no  pains  to  secure  the  comfort  of  such  a  head  of  hair 
as  he  then  saw  before  him. 

"  This  is  my  dear  friend,  Judge  Sweeney,"  continued  the 
Ritualistic  organist,  languidly  waving  a  spoon  toward  that 
gentleman,  "who  has  a  very  good  wife  in  the  grave,  and 
knows  much  more  about  women  and  gravy  than  I.  As  for 
me,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bumstead,  suddenly  climbing  upon  the 
9 


194:  A   SUBTLE  STRANGER. 

arm  of  his  chair,  and  staring  at  Mr.  Clews'  head  rather  wildly, 
"my  only  bride  was  of  black  alpaca,  with  a  brass  ferule, 
and  I  can  never  care  for  the  sex  again."  Here  Mr.  Bum- 
stead,  whose  eyes  had  been  rolling  in  an  extraordinary  man- 
ner, tumbled  into  his  chair  again,  and  then,  frowning  intensely, 
helped  himself  to  lemon  tea. 

"  I  am  referred  to  your  Honor  for  further  particulars," 
observed  Mr.  Tracey  Clews,  bowing  again  to  Judge  Sweeney. 
"  Not  to  wound  our  friend  further  by  discussion  of  the  fair 
sex,  may  I  ask  if  Bumsteadville  contains  many  objects  of  in- 
terest for  a  stranger,  like  myself  ?  " 

"One,  at  least,  sir,"  answered  the  Judge.  "I  think  I 
could  show  you  a  tombstone  which  you  would  find  very  good 
reading.  An  epitaph  upon  my  late  better-half.  If  you  are 
a  married  man  you  can  not  help  enjoying  it." 

Mr.  Clews  regretted  to  inform  his  Honor,  that  he  had 
never  been  a  married  man,  and,  therefore,  could  not  pre- 
sume to  fancy  what  the  literary  enjoyment  of  a  widower 
must  be  at  such  a  treat. 

"A  journalist,  I  presume?"  insinuated  Judge  Sweeney, 
more  and  more  struck  by  the  other's  perfect  pageant  of  in- 
comprehensible hair  and  beard. 

"  His  Honor  flatters  me  too  much." 
"  Something  in  the  lunatic  line,  then,  perhaps  ?  " 
"I  have  told  your  Honor  that  I  never  was  married." 
Since  last  speaking,  Mr.  Bumstead  had  been  staring  at  the 
new  boarder's  head  and  face,  with  a  countenance  expressive 


A   SUBTLE  STRANGER.  195 

of  mingled  consternation  and  wrath,  and  now  made  a  start- 
ling rush  at  him,  from  his  chair,  and  fairly  forced  half  a  glass 
of  lemon  tea  down  his  throat. 

"There,  sir!"  said  the  mourning  organist,  panting  with 
suppressed  excitement.  "  That  will  keep  you  from  taking 
cold  until  you  can  be  walked  up  and  down  in  the  open  air 
long  enough  to  get  your  hair  and  beard  sober.  They  have 
been  indulging,  sir,  until  the  top  of  your  head  has  fallen  over 
backwards,  and  your  whiskers  act  as  though  they  belonged 
to  somebody  else.  The  sight  confuses  me,  sir,  and  in  my 
present  state  of  mind  I  can't  bear  it." 

Coughing  from  the  lemon  tea,  and  greatly  amazed  by  his 
hasty  dismissal,  Mr.  Clews  followed  Judge  Sweeney  from  the 
room  and  house  in  precipitate  haste,  and,  when  they  were 
fairly  out  of  doors,  remarked,  that  the  gentlemen  they  had 
just  left  had  surprised  him  unprecedentedly,  and  that  he  was 
very  much  put  out  by  it. 

"  Mr.  John  Bumstead,  sir,"  explained  the  Judge,  "  is  al- 
most beside  himself  at  the  double  loss  he  has  sustained,  and  I 
think  that  the  sight  of  your  cane,  there,  maddened  him  with 
the  memory  it  revived." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  the  gentleman  of  the  hair,  staring  in 
wonder,  "  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  my  cane  looks  at 
all  like  his  nephew  ?  " 

"  It  looks  a  little  like  the  stick  of  his  umbrella,  which  he 
lost  at  the  same  time,"  was  the  grave  answer. 

After   walking   on  in  thoughtful  silence  for  a  while,  as 


196  A   SUBTLE  STRANGER. 

though  deeply  pondering  the  striking  character  of  a  man 
whose  great  nature  could  thus  at  once  unite  the  bereaved 
uncle  with  the  sincere  mourner  for  the  dumb  friend  of  his 
rainier  days,  Mr.  Tracey  Clews  asked  whether  suspicion  yet 
pointed  to  any  one  ? 

Yes,  he  was  told,  suspicion  did  point  very  decidedly  at  a 
certain  person  ;  but,  as  no  specific  reward  had  yet  been  of- 
fered in  sufficient  amount  to  justify  the  exertions  of  police 
officials  having  families  to  support ;  and  as  no  lifeless  body 
had  yet  been  found;  and  as  it  was  not  exactly  certain 
that  the  abstraction  of  an  umbrella  by  unknown  parties 
would  justify  the  criminal  prosecution  of  a  person  for  having 
in  his  possession  an  Indian  Club  :  —  in  view  of  all  these 
complicated  circumstances,  the  law  did  not  feel  itself  author- 
ized to  execute  any  assassin  at  present. 

"And  here  we  are,  sir,  at  last,  near  our  Ritualistic 
Church,"  continued  Judge  Sweeney,  "  where  we  stand  up  for 
die  Rite  so  much  that  strangers  sometimes  complain  of  it  as 
fatiguing.  Upon  that  monument  yonder,  in  the  graveyard, 
you  may  find  the  epitaph  I  have  mentioned.  What  is  more, 
here  comes  a  rather  interesting  local  character  of  ours,  who 
cut  the  inscription  and  put  up  the  monument." 

Mr.  McLaughlin  came  shuffling  up  the  road  as  he  spoke, 
followed  in  the  distance  by  the  inevitable  Smalley  and  a 
shower  of  promiscuous  stones. 

"  Here,  you  boy !  "  roared  Judge  Sweeney,  beckoning  the 
amiable  child  to  him  with  a  bit  of  small  money,  "aim  at  all 


A   SUBTLE  STRANGER.  197 

of  us —  do  you  hear?  —  and  see  that  you  don't  hit  any  win- 
dows. And  now,  McLaughlin,  how  do  you  do  ?  Here  is  a 
gentleman  spending  the  summer  with  us,  who  would  like  to 
know  you." 

Old  Mortarity  stared  at  the  hair  and  beard  thus  intro- 
duced to  him,  with  undisguised  amazement,  and  grimly  re- 
marked, that  if  the  gentleman  would  come  to  see  him  any 
evening,  and  bring  a  social  bottle  with  him,  he  would  not 
allow  the  gentleman's  head  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  further 
acquaintance. 

• 

"  I  shall  certainly  call  upon  you,"  assented  Mr.  Clews, 
"  if  our  young  friend,  the  stone-thrower,  will  accept  a  trifle 
to  show  me  the  way." 

Before  retiring  to  his  bed  that  night,  the  same  Mr.  Tracey 

Clews  took  off  his  hair  and  beard,  examined  them  closely, 

•» 

and  then  broke  into  a  strange  smile.  "  No  wonder  they  all 
looked  at  me  so  !"  he  soliloquized,  "for  I  did  have  my  locks 
on  the  topside  backmost,  and  my  whiskers  turned  the  wrong 
way.  However,  for  a  dead  beat,  with  all  his  imperfections 
on  his  head,  I've  formed  a  pretty  large  acquaintance  for 
one  day."  * 

*  In  both  conception  and  execution,  the  original  of  the  above  Chapter,  in  Mr. 
Dickens's  work,  is,  perhaps,  the  least  felicitous  page  of  fiction  ever  penned  by  the 
great  novelist ;  and,  as  this  Adaptation  is  in  no  wise  intended  as  a  burlesque,  or  carica- 
ture, of  the  style  of  the  original  (but  rather  as  a  conscientious  imitation  of  it,  so  far  as 
practicable),  the  Adapter  has  not  allowed  himself  that  license  of  humor  which,  in  the 
most  comically  effective  treatment  of  said  Chapter,  might  bear  the  appearance  of  such 
an  intention. 


198  THE  H'.   AND  H.    OF  y.   BUM  STEAD. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    H.    AND    H.    OF    J.    BUMSTEAD. 

THE  exquisitely  sweet  month  of  the  perfectly  delicious 
summer-vacation  having  come,  Miss  Carowthers'  Young 
Ladies  have  returned  again,  for  a  time,  to  their  respective 
homes,  Magnolia  Pendragon  has  gone  to  the  city  and  her 
brother,  and  Flora  Potts  is  ridiculously  and  absurdly  alone. 

Under  the  ardent  sun  of  August,  Bumsteadville  slowly 
bakes,  like  an  ogre's  family-dish  of  stuffed  cottages  and 
greens,  with  here  and  there  some  slowly  moving  object,  like 
a  loose  vegetable  on  a  sluggish  current  of  tidal  gravy,  and 
the  spire  of  the  Ritualistic  church  shooting  up  at  one  end 
like  an  incorrigibly  perpendicular  leg  of  magnified  mutton. 

Hotter  and  hotter  comes  the  fiery  breath  of  nature's 
cookery,  until  some  of  the  stuffing  boils  out  of  one  cottage, 
in  the  shape  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  who  makes  his  usual 
annual  remark,  that  this  is  the  Warmest  Day  in  ninety-eight 
years,  and  then  simmers  away  to  some  cooler  nook  amongst 
the  greens.  MoYe  and  more  intolerably  quivers  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  sylvan  oven  with  stifling  fervency,  until  there 
oozes  from  beneath  the  shingled  crust  of  a  vegetarian  coun- 
try-boarding-house a  parboiled  guest  from  the  City,  who, 


THE  H.    AND  H.    OF  J.   BUMSTEAD.  199 

believing  himself  almost  ready  to  turn,  drifts  feebly  to  where 
the  roads  fork  and  there  is  a  shade  more  dun ;  while,  to  the 
speculative  mind,  each  glowing  field  of  corn,  or  buckwheat, 
is  an  incipient  Meal,  and  each  chimney,  or  barn,  a  mere 
temptation  to  guess  how  many  Swallows  there  may  be  in  it. 

Upon  the  afternoon  of  such  a  day  as  this,  Miss  Potts  is 
informed,  by  a  servant,  that  Mr.  Bumstead  has  arrived,  and, 
sending  her  his  love,  would  be  pleased  to  have  her  come 
down  stairs  to  him  and  bring  a  fan. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  him  I  wasn't  at  home,  you  absurd 
thing  ?  "  cries  the  young  girl,  hurriedly  practising  a  series  of 
agitated  looks  and  pensive  smiles  before*her  mirror. 

"So  I  did,  Miss,"  answers  the  attached  menial,  "but 
he'd  seen  you  looking  at  him  with  an  opera-glass  as  he  came 
up  the  path,  and  said  that  he  could  hear  you  taking  a  clean 
handkerchief  out  of  the  drawer,  on  purpose  to  receive  him 
with,  before  he'd  got  to  the  door." 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  My  hands  are  so  red  to-day  ! " 
sighs  Flora,  holding  her  arms  above  her  head,  that  the 
blood  may  retire  from  the  too  pinkish  members. 

After  a  pause,  and  an  adjustment  of  a  curl  over  her  right 
eye  and  the  scarf  at  her  waist,  to  make  them  look  innocent, 
she  yields  to  the  meteorological  mania  so  strikingly  prevalent 
amongst  all  the  other  characters  of  this  narrative,  and  says 
that  she  will  receive  the  visitor  in  the  yard,  near  the  pump. 
Then,  casting  carelessly  over  her  shoulder  that  web-like 
shawl  without  which  no  woman  nor  spider  is  complete,  she 


200  THE  H.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD. 

arranges  her  lips  in  the  glass  for  the  last  time,  and,  with  a 
garden-hat  hanging  from  the  elbow  latest  singed,  goes  down, 
humming  unsuspiciously,  into  the  open-air,  with  the  guileless 
bearing  of  one  wholly  unprepared  for  company. 

Resting  an  elbow  upon  a  low  iron  patent-pump,  near  a 
rustic  seat,  the  Ritualistic  organist,  in  his  vast  linen  coat 
and  imposing  straw  hat,  looks  not  unlike  an  eccentric  gar- 
den statue,  upon  which  some  prudish  slave  of  modern  con- 
ventionalities has  placed  the  summer  attire  of  a  western 
editor.  The  great  heat  of  the  sun  upon  his  back  makes  him 
irritable,  and  when  Miss  Potts  sharply  smites  with  her  fan 
the  knuckles  of  the*  hand  which  he  has  affably  extended  to 
take  her  by  the  chin,  more  than  the  usual  symptoms  of  acute 
inflammation  appear  at  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  he  blows 
hurriedly  upon  his  wounded  digits. 

"That  hurt  like  the  mischief!"  he  remarks  in  some  anger. 
"  I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  anything  smart  so." 

"Then  don't  be  so  horrid,"  returns  the  pensive  girl,  tak- 
ing a  seat  before  him  upon  the  rustic  settee,  and  abstract- 
edly arranging  her  dress  so  that  only  two-thirds  of  a  gaiter- 
boot  can  be  seen. 

Munching  cloves,  the  aroma  of  which  ladens  the  air  all 
around  him,  Mr.  Bumstead  contemplates  her  with  a  calm- 
ness which  would  be  enthralling,  but  for  the  nervous  twist- 
ing of  his  features  under  the  torments  of  a  singularly  ad- 
hesive fly. 

"  I  have  come,  dear,"  he  observes,  slowly,  "  to  know  how 


THE  II.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD.  201 

soon  you  will  be  ready  for  me  to  give  you  your  next  music- 
lesson?" 

"  I  prefer  that  you  would  not  call  me  your  '  dear,' "  is  the 
chilling  answer. 

The  organist  thinks  for  a  moment,  and  then  nods  his  head 
intelligently.  "You  are  right,"  he  says  gravely,  " — there 
might  be  somebody  listening  who  could  not  enter  into  our 
real  feelings.  And  now,  how  about  those  music-lessons  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  any  more,  thank  you,"  says  Flora,  coldly. 
"While  we  are  all  in  mourning  for  our  poor,  dear,  absurd 
Eddy,  it  seems  like  a  perfectly  ridiculous  mockery  to  be 
practising  the  scales." 

Fanning  himself  with  his  straw  hat,  Mr.  Bumstead  shakes 
his  bushy  head  several  times.  "  You  do  not  discriminate 
sufficiently,"  he  replies.  "  There  are  kinds  of  music  which, 
when  performed  rapidly  upon  the  violin,  fife,  or  kettle- 
drum, certainly  fill  the  mind  with  sentiments  unfavorable 
to  the  deeper  anguish  of  human  sorrow.  Of  such,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  kind  made  by  young  girls,  which  is  at  all 
times  a  help  to  the  intensity  of  judicious  grief.  Let  me 
assure  you,  with  the  candor  of  an  idolized  friend,  that  some 
of  the  saddest  hours  of  my  life  have  been  spent  in  teaching 
you  to  try  to  sing  a  humorous  aria  from  Donizetti ;  and  the 
moments  in  which  I  have  most  sincerely  regretted  ever  hav- 
ing been  born  were  those  in  which  you  have  played,  in  my 
hearing,  the  Drinking-song  from  La  Traviata.  Believe  me, 
then,  my  devoted  pupil,  there  can  be  nothing  at  all  incon- 
9* 


202  THE  H.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD. 

sistent  with  a  prevalence  of  profound  melancholy  in  your 
continued  piano-playing ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  your  sud- 
den and  permanent  cessation  might  at  least  surprise  your 
friends  and  the  neighborhood  into  a  light-heartedness  tempo- 
rarily oblivious  of  the  memory  of  that  dear  missing  boy,  to 
whom  you  could  not,  I  hear,  give  the  love  already  bestowed 
upon  me." 

"  I  loved  him  ridiculously,  absurdly,  with  my  whole 
heart,"  cries  Flora,  not  altogether  liking  what  she  has  heard. 

"  I'm  real  sorry,  too,  that  they  think  somebody  has  killed 
him." 

Mr.  Bumstead  folds  his  brown  linen  arms  as  he  towers 
before  her,  and  the  dark  circles  around  his  eyes  appear  to 
shrink  with  the  intensity  of  his  gaze. 

"  There  are  occasions  in  life,"  he  remarks,  "  when  to 
acknowledge  that  our  last  meeting  with  a  friend  who  has 
since  mysteriously  disappeared,  was  to  reject  him  and  imply 
a  preference  for  his  uncle,  may  be  calculated  to  associate  us 
unpleasantly  with  that  disappearance,  in  the  minds  of  the 
censorious,  and  invite  suspicions  tending  to  our  early  cross- 
examination  by  our  Irish  local  magistrate.  I  do  not  say, 
of  course,  that  you  actually  destroyed  my  nephew  for  fear 
he  should  try  to  prejudice  me  against  you  ;  but  I  cannot 
withhold  my  earnest  approval  of  your  judicious  pretence  of 
a  sentiment  palpably  incompatible  with  the  shedding  of  the 
blood  of  its  departed  object.  If  you  will  move  your  dress  a 
little,  so  that  I  can  sit  beside  you  and  allow  your  head  to 


THE  //.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD.  203 

rest  upon  my  shoulder,  that  fan  will  do  for  both  of  us,  and 
we  may  converse  in  whispers." 

"  My  head  upon  your  shoulder!"  exclaims  Miss  Potts, 
staring  swiftly  about  to  see  if  anybody  is  looking.  "  I  pre- 
fer to  keep  my  head  upon  my  own  shoulders,  sir." 

"Two  heads  are  better  than  one,"  the  Ritualistic  organist 
reminds  her.  "  If  a  little  hair-oil  and  powder  does  come  off 
upon  my  coat,  the  latter  will  wash,  I  suppose.  Come,  dear- 
est, if  it  is  our  fate  to  never  get  through  this  hot  day  alive, 
let  us  be  sunstruck  together." 

She  shrinks  timidly  from  the  brown  linen  arm  which  he 
begins  insinuating  along  the  back  of  the  rustic  settee,  and 
tells' him  that  she  couldn't  have  believed  that  he  could  be  so 
absurd.  He  draws  back  his  arm,  and  seems  hurt. 

"Flora,"  he  says,  tenderly,  "how  beautiful  you  are, 
especially  when  fixed  up.  The  more  I  see  of  you,  the  less 
sorry  I  am  that  I  have  concluded  to  be  yours.  All  the  time 
that  my  dear  boy  was  trying  to  induce  you  to  release  him 
from  his  engagement,  I  was  thinking  how  much  better  you 
might  do  ;  yet,  beyond  an  occasional  encouraging  wink,  I 
never  gave  the  least  sign  of  reciprocating  your  attachment. 
I  did  not  think  it  would  be  right." 

The  assertion,  though  superficially  true,  is  so  imperfect  in 
its  delineation  of  habitual  conduct  liable  to  another  con- 
struction, that  the  agitated  Flowerpot  returns,  with  quick 
indignation  :  "  Your  arm  was  always  reaching  out  whenever 
you  sat  in  a  chair  anywhere  near  me,  3,nd  whenever  I  sang 


204:  THE  If.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD. 

you  always  kept  looking  straight  into  my  mouth  until  it 
tickled  me.  -You  know  you  did,  you  hateful  thing !  Be- 
sides, it  wasn't  you  that  I  preferred  at  all ;  it  was  —  oh,  it's 
too  ridiculous  to  tell !  " 

In  her  bashful  confusion  she  is  about  to  arise  and  trip 
shyly  away  from  him  into  the  house,  when  he  speaks  again. 
"  Miss  Potts,  is  your  friendship  for  Miss  Pendragon  and 
her  brother  such,  that  their  execution  upon  some  Friday  of 
next  month  would  be  a  spectacle  to  which  you  could  give 
no  pleased  attention  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  absurd  creature  ?  " 
"  I  mean,"  continues  Mr.  Bumstead,  "  simply  this  :  you 
know  my  double  loss.  You  know  that,  upon  the  person  of 
the  male  Pendragon  was  found  an  apple  looking  and  tast- 
ing like  one  which  my  nephew  once  had.  You  know,  that 
when  Miss  Pendragon  went  from  here  she  wore  an  alpaca 
waist  which  looked  as  though  it  had  been  exposed  more  than 
once  to  the  rain. —  See  the  point  ?  " 

Flora  gives  a  startled  look,  and  says,  "  I  don't  see  it" 
"  Suppose,"  he  goes  on  —  "  suppose  that  I  go  to  a  magis- 
trate, and  say  :  '  Judge,  I  voted  for  you,  and  can  influence  a 
large  foreign  vote  for  you  again.  I  have  lost  a  nephew  who 
was  very  fond  of  apples,  and  a  black  alpaca  umbrella  of 
great  value.  A  young  Southerner,  who  has  not  lived  in  this 
State  long  enough  to  vote,  has  been  found  in  possession 
of  an  apple  singularly  like  the  kind  generally  eaten  by  my 


THE  H.    AND  H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD.  205 

missing  relative,  and  his  sister  has  come  out  in  a  waist  made 
of  second-hand  alpaca  ? ' —  See  the  point  now  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Bumstead,"  exclaims  Flora,  affrighted  by  the  terri- 
ble menace  of  his  manner,  "I  don't  any  more  believe  that 
Mr.  Pendragon  is  guilty  than  that  I,  myself,  am  ;  and  as  for 
your  old  umbrella  —  " 

"  Stop,  woman  ! "  interrupts  the  bereaved  organist,  imper- 
iously. "Not  even  your  lips  shall  speak  disrespectfully  of 
my  lost  bone-handled  friend.  By  a  chain  of  unanswerable 
argument,  I  have  shown  you  that  I  hold  the  fate  of  your 
Southern  acquaintances  in  my  hands,  and  shall  be  particu- 
larly sorry  if  you  force  me  to  hang  Mr.  Pendragon  as  a 
rival." 

Flora  puts  her  hands  to  her  temples,  to  soothe  her  throb- 
bing head  and  display  a  bracelet. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  !  I  don't  want  anybody  to  be  hung  ! 
It  must  be  so  perfectly  awful ! " 

Her  touching  display  of  generous  feeling  does  not  soften 
him.  On  the  contrary,  he  stands  more  erect,  and  smiles 
rather  triumphantly  under  his  straw  hat. 

"Beloved  one,"  he  murmurs,  in  a  rich  voice,  "  I  find  that 
I  cannot  induce  you  to  make  the  first  advance  towards  the 
mutual  avowal  we  are  both  longing  for,  and  must  therefore 
precipitate  our  happiness  myself.  My  poor  boy  would  not 
have  given  you  perfect  satisfaction,  and  your  momentary 
liking  for  the  male  Pendragon  was  but  the  effect  of  a  tempo- 
rary despair  undoubtedly  produced  by  my  seeming  coldness. 


206  THE  H.    AND   H.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD. 

That  coldness  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  heart,  but  resulted 
partially  from  my  habit  of  wearing  a  wet  towel  on  my  head. 
I  now  propose  to  you  —  " 

"  Propose  to  me  ?  "  ejaculates  Miss  Potts,  with  heightened 
color. 

— "  That  you  pick  out  a  worthy  man  belonging  to  your 
own  section  of  the  Union,"  he  continues  hastily.  —  "  Here's 
my  Heart,"  he  adds,  going  through  the  motions  of  taking 
something  from  a  pocket  and  placing  it  in  his  outstretched 
palm,  "and  here's  my  Hand," — placing  therein  an  equally 
imaginary  object  from  another  pocket.  —  "  Try  the  H.  and 
H.  of  J.  Bumstead." 

His  manner  is  as  though  he  were  commending  some 
patent  article  of  unquestionable  utility. 

"  But  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  you  !  "  she  cries,  pushing 
away  the  brown  linen  arm  coming  after  her  again. 

Taking  away  her  fan,  he  pats  her  on  the  head  with  it,  and 
seems  momentarily  surprised  at  the  hollow  sound. 

"  Future  Mrs.  Bumstead,"  he  cheerfully  replies,  at  last, 
"  my  observation  and  knowledge  of  the  women  of  America 
teach  me  that  there  never  was  a  wife  going  to  Indiana  for  a 
divorce,  who  had  not  at  first  sworn  to  love,  as  well  as  honor 
and  obey,  her  husband.  Such  is  woman,  that  if  she  had  felt 
and  said  at  the  altar  that  she  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  him, 
it  wouldn't  have  been  in  the  power  of  masculine  brutality 
and  dissipated  habits  to  drive  her  from  his  side  through  all 
their  lives.  There  can  be  no  better  sign  of  our  future  hap- 


THE  H.    AND  II.    OF  J.    BUMSTEAD.  207 

piness,  than  for  you  to  say,  beforehand,  that  you  utterly 
detest  the  man  of  your  choice." 

There  is  something  terrible  to  the  young  girl  in  the  origi- 
nal turn  of  thought  of  this  fascinating  man.  Say  what  she 
may,  he  at  once  turns  it  into  virtual  devotion  to  himself. 
He  appears  to  have  a  perfectly  dreadful  power  to  hang 
everybody ;  he  considers  her  strongest  avowal  of  present 
personal  dislike  the  most  promising  indication  she  can  give 
of  eternal  future  infatuation  with  him,  and  his  powerful  mode 
of  reasoning  is  more  profound  and  confusing  than  an  article 
in  a  New  York  newspaper  on  a  War  in  Europe.  Rendered 
dizzy  by  his  metaphysical  conversation,  she  arises  from  the 
rustic  seat,  and  is  flying  giddily  into  the  house,  when  he 
leaps  athletically  after  her,  and  catches  her  in  the  doorway. 

"I  merely  wish  to  request,"  he  says,  quietly,  "that  you 
place  sufficient  restraint  upon  your  naturally  happy  feelings 
to  keep  our  engagement  a  secret  from  the  public  at  present, 
as  I  can't  bear  to  have  the  boys  calling  out  after  me, 
'There's  the  feller  that's  goin'  to  get  married  !  There's  the 
feller  that's  goin'  to  get  married  ! '  When  a  man  is  about  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself,  it  is  not  for  children  to  remind  him 
of  it." 

The  door  being  opened  before  she  can  answer,  Flora  re- 
ceives a  parting  bow  of  Grandisonian  elegance  from  Mr. 
Bumstead,  and  hastens  upstairs  to  her  room  in  a  destrac- 
tion  of  mind  not  uncommon  to  those  having  conversational 
relations  with  the  Ritualistic  organist. 


208  AN  ESCAPE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN    ESCAPE. 

THE  bewildered  Flowerpot  had  no  sooner  gained  her  own 
room,  enjoyed  her  agitated  expression  of  face  in  the  mirror, 
and  tried  four  differently  colored  ribbon-bows  upon  her  collar 
in  succession,  than  the  thought  of  becoming  Mr.  Bumstead's 
bride  lost  the  charm  of  its  first  wild  novelty,  and  became  ut- 
terly ridiculous.  He  was  a  man  of  commanding  stature, 
which  his  linen  "  duster  "  made  appear  still  more  long  ;  the 
dark  circles  around  his  eyes  would  disappear  in  time,  and  he 
had  an  abusive  way  of  referring  to  women  which  made  him 
inexpressibly  grand  to  women  as  a  true  poet-soul ;  but  would 
it  be  safe,  would  it  be  religiously  right,  for  a  young  girl,  not  yet 
conscious  of  her  own  full  power  of  annual  monetary  expen- 
diture, to  blindly  risk  her  necessary  expenses  for  life  upon 
one  whom  the  cost  of  a  single  imported  bonnet,  in  the  con- 
tingency of  a  General  European  War,  might  plunge  into  in- 
extricable pecuniary  embarrassment  ?  Possibly,  the  Gen- 
eral European  War  might  not  occur  in  an  ordinary  married- 
lifetime,  as  France  was  no  longer  in  a  condition  to  menace 
England,  Russia  would  be  wary  about  provoking  the  new 
Prussian  giant,  and  Austria  and  Italy  were  not  likely  soon 


AN  ESCAPE. 


to  forget  their  last  military  misadventures  :  yet,  while  all  the 
great  American  journals  had,  for  the  last  twenty  years,  pub- 
lished daily  editorials,  by  young  writers  from  the  country,  to 
show  that  such  a  War  could  not  possibly  be  averted  longer 
than  about  the  day  after  to-morrow,  would  it  be  judicious  for 
a  young  girl  to  marry  as  though  that  War  were  absolutely 
impossible  ?  No  !  Her  woman's  heart  sternly  reiterated 
the  pitiless  negative  ;  and,  as  the  Ritualistic  organist  had 
plainly  evinced  an  earnest  intention  to  let  no  foreign  mili- 
tary complications  prevent  her  marriage  with  him,  she  felt 
that  her  only  safety  from  his  matrimonial  violence  must  be 
sought  in  flight. 

With  whom,  though,  could  she  take  refuge  ?  If  she  went 
to  Magnolia  Pendragon,  all  her  dearest  schoolmates  would 
say,  that  they  had  always  loved  her,  despite  her  great  faults, 
yet  could  not  disguise  from  themselves  that  she  seemed  at 
last  to  be  fairly  running  after  Miss  Pendragon' s  brother. 
Besides,  Mr.  Bumstead,  offended  by  the  seeming  want  of 
confidence  in  him  evinced  by  her  flight,  would,  probably, 
take  measures  publicly  to  identify  Magnolia's  alpaca  gar- 
ment with  the  covering  of  his  lost  umbrella,  and  thus  direct 
new  suspicion  against  a  sister  and  brother  already  bothered 
almost  into  hysterics. 

During  the  last  few  weeks,  an  attack  of  dyspepsia  had  laid 
the  foundation  of  a  mind  in  the  Flowerpot,  as  it  generally 
does  in  other  young  female  American  boarding-school 
thinkers,  and  she  was  now  capable  of  that  subtle  line  of  rea- 


210  AN  ESCAPE. 

soning  which  is  Jthe  great  commendation  of  her  sex  to  a 
recognized  perfect  intellectual  equality  with  man.  Once  de- 
cided, by  her  apprehension  of  a  General  European  War, 
against  marriage  with  J.  Bumstead,  she  took  a  rather  irri- 
table view  of  that  too  attractive  devotional  musician,  and 
inferred,  from  his  not  being  wealthy  enough  to  stand  the  test 
of  possible  transatlantic  hostilities,  that  he  must,  himself, 
have  killed  Edwin  Drood.  His  umbrella,  it  was  well  known, 
had  been  present  at  that  fatal  Christmas  dinner ;  and  a 
thoughtless  insult  offered  to  it,  even  by  his  nephew,  might 
have  made  a  demon  of  him.  Suppose  that  Edwin,  upon  re- 
turning to  the  dining-room  that  night,  after  his  temporary 
exercise  in  the  open  air  with  Montgomery  Pendragon,  had 
found  his  uncle,  flushed  with  cloves,  endeavoring  to  force  a 
social  glass  of  lemon  tea  upon  the  umbrella,  under  the  im- 
pression that  it  was  a  person,  and  had  unthinkingly  accused 
him  thereat  of  being  momentarily  unsettled  in  his  faculties  ? 
Probably,  then,  hot  words  would  have  passed  between  them ; 
each  telling  the  other  that  he  would  have  a  nice  headache  in 
the  morning  and  find  it  impossible  not  to  look  very  sleepy 
even  if  he  fixed  his  hair  ever  so  elaborately.  Blows  might 
have  followed  :  the  uncle,  in  his  anger,  hewing  the  nephew 
limb  from  limb  with  the  carving  knife  from  the  table,  and 
subsequently  carrying  away  the  remains  to  the  Pond  and 
there  casting  them  in.  Suppose,  in  his  natural  excitement, 
the  uncle  had  hurriedly  used  the  umbrella,  opened  and  held 
downward,  to.  carry  the  remains  in  ;  and,  after  coming  home 


AN  ESCAPE.  211 

again,  and  snatching  a  nap  under  the  table,  had  forgotten  all 
about  it,  and  thus  been  ever  since  inconsolable  for  his  alpaca 
loss?  As  the  young  orphan  argued  thus  exhaustively  to 
.  herself,  the  extreme  probability  of  her  suppositions  made  her 
more  and  more  frenzied  to  fly  instantly  beyond  the  reach  of 
one  who,  in  the  event  of  a  General  European  War,  would 
not  be  a  husband  whom  her  head  could  approve. 

After  penning  a  hasty  farewell  note  to  Miss  Carowthers, 
to  the  effect  that  urgent  military  reasons  obliged  her  to  see 
her  guardian  at  once,  Flora  lost  no  time  in  packing  a  small 
leather  satchel  for  travel.  Two  bottles  of  hair-oil,  a  jar  of 
glycerine,  one  of  cold  cream,  two  boxes  of  powder,  a  package 
of  extra  back -hair,  a  phial  of  belladonna,  a  camel' s-hair  brush 
for  the  eyebrows,  a  rouge-saucer  for  pinking  the  nails,  four 
flasks  of  perfumery,  a  depilatory  in  a  small  flagon,  and  some 
tooth-paste,  were  the  only  articles  she  could  pause  to  collect 
for  her  precipitate  escape :  and,  with  them  in  the  satchel  on 
her  arm,  and  a  bonnet  and  shawl  hurriedly  thrown  on,  she 
stole  away  down-stairs,  and  thus  from  the  house. 

Hastening  to  the  Roach  House,  from  whence  started  an 
omnibus  for  the  ferry,  she  was  quickly  rattling  out  of  Bum- 
steadville  in  a  vehicle  remarkable  for  the  great  number  and 
variety  of  noises  it  could  make  when  maddened  into  motion 
by  a  span  of  equine  rivals  in  aii  immemorial  walking-match. 

"  Now,  Bonner,"  she  said  to  the  driver,  taking  leave  of 
him  at  the  ferry-boat,  "be  sure  and  let  Miss  Carowthers 


212  AN  ESCAPE. 

know  that  you  saw  me  safely  off,  and  that  I  was  not  a  bit 
more  tired  than  if  I  had  walked  all  the  way." 

Blushing  with  pleasure  at  the  implied  compliment  to  his 
equipage  from  such  lips,  the  skilful  horseman  had  not  the 
heart  to  object  to  the  wildly  mutilated  fragment  of  currency 
with  which  his  fare  had  been  paid,  and  went  back  to  where 
his  steeds  were  taking  turns  in  holding  each  other  up,  as 
happy  a  man  as  ever  lost  money  by  the  change  in  woman. 

Reaching  the  city,  Miss  Potts  was  promptly  worshipped  by 
a  hackman  of  marked  conversational  powers,  who,  whip  in 
hand,  assured  her  that  his  carriage  was  widely  celebrated 
under  the  titles  of  the  "Rocking  Chair,"  the  "  Old  Shoe," 
and  the  "  Glider,"  on  account  of  its  incredible  ease  of  mo- 
tion ;  and  that,  owing  to  its  exquisite  abbreviation  of  travel 
to  the  emotions,  those  who  rode  in  it  had  actually  been 
known  to  dispute  that  they  had  ridden  even  half  the  distance 
for  which  they  were  charged.  Did  he  know  where  Mr.  Dib- 
ble, the  lawyer,  lived,  in  Nassau  Street,  near  Fulton  ?  *  If 
she  meant  lawyer  Dibble,  near  Fulton  Street,  in  Nassau, 
next  door  but  one  to  the  second  house  below,  and  directly 
opposite  the  building  across  the  way,  there  was  just  one 
span  of  buckskin  horses  in  the  city  that  could  take  a  car- 
riage built  expressly  for  ladies  to  that  place,  as  naturally  as 
though  it  were  a  stable.  It  was  a  place  that  he  — the  hack- 
man—  always  associated  with  his  own  mother,  because  he 

*  In  the  original,  Staple  Inn,  London,  is  the  lawyer's  address. 


AN  ESCAPE.  213 

was  so  familiar  with  it  in  childhood,  and  had  often  thought 
of  driving  to  it  blindfolded  for  a  wager. 

Proud  to  learn  that  her  guardian  was  so  well  known  in  the 
great  city,  and  delighted  that  she  had  met  a  charioteer  so 
minutely  familiar  with  his  house  of  business,  Flora  stepped 
readily  into  the  providential  hack,  which  thereupon  instantly 
began  Rocking-Chair-ing,  Old-Shoe-ing,  and  Gliding.  Any 
one  of  these  celebrated  processes,  by  itself,  might  have  been 
desirable  ;  but  their  indiscriminate  and  impetuous  combina- 
tion in  the  present  case  gave  the  Flowerpot  a  confused  im- 
pression that  her  whole  ride  was  a  startling  series  of  incess- 
ant sharp  turns  around  obdurate  street  corners,  and  kept  her 
plunging  about  like  an  early  young  Protestant  tossed  in  a 
Romish  blanket.  Instinctively  holding  her  satchel  aloft,  to 
save  its  fragile  contents  from  fracture,  she  rocked,  shoed,  and 
glided  all  over  the  interior  of  the  vehicle,  without  hope  of 
gaining  breath  enough  for  even  one  scream,  until,  nearly  un- 
conscious, and,  with  her  bonnet  driven  half-way  into  her 
chignon,  she  was  helped  out  by  the  hackman  at  her  guard- 
ian's door. 

"  I  am  dying  ! "  she  groaned. 

"  Then  please  remember  me  in  your  will,  to  the  extent 
of  two  dollars,"  returned  the  hackman  with  much  humor. 
"  You're  only  a  little  sea-sick,  miss  ;  as  often  happens  to 
people  in  humble  circumstances  when  they  ride  in  a  ker- 
ridge  for  the  first  time." 

Still  panting,  Miss  Potts  paid  and  discharged  this  friendly 


214  AN  ESCAPE. 

man,  and,  weariedly  entering  the  building,  followed  the  signs 
upstairs  to  her  guardian's  office. 

After  knocking  several  times  at  the  right  door,  without 
reply,  she  turned  the  knob,  and  entered  so  softly  that  the 
venerable  lawyer  was  not  aroused  from  the  slumber  into 
which  he  had  fallen  in  his  chair  by  the  window.  With  a 
copy  of  Old  and  New  still  grasped  in  his  honest  right  hand, 
good  Mr.  Dibble  slept  like  a  drugged  person ;  nor  could  the 
young  girl  awaken  him  until,  by  a  happy  inspiration,  she 
had  snatched  away  the  monthly  and  cast  it  through  the  case- 
ment. 

"  Am  I  dreaming  ?  "  exclaimed  the  aged  man,  when  thus 
suddenly  rescued  from  his  deadly  lethargy  at  last.  "  Is  that 
you,  my  dear ;  or  are  you  your  late  mother  ?  " 

"  I  am  your  ridiculously  unhappy  ward,"  answered  the 
Flowerpot,  tremulously.  "  Oh,  poor,  dear,  absurd  Eddy  !  " 

"  And  you  have  come  here  all  alone  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  to  escape  being  married  to  Eddy's  perfectly 
hateful  uncle,  who  has  the  same  as  ordered  me  to  become 
his  utterly  disgusted  bride.  Oh,  why  is  it,  why  is  it,  that  I 
must  be  thus  persecuted  by  young  men  without  property ! 
Why  is  it  that  perfectly  horrid  madmen  on  salaries  are  al- 
lowed to  claim  me  as  their  own ! " 

"  My  dear,"  cried  the  old  lawyer,  leading  her  to  a  chair, 
and  striving  to  speak  soothingly,  "  if  Mr.  Bumstead  desires 
to  marry  you  he  must  indeed  be  insane.  Such  a  man  ought 
really  to  be  confined,"  he  continued,  pacing  thoughtfully  up 


AN  ESCAPE.  215 

and  down  the  room.  "This  must  have  been  the  idea  that 
was  already  turning  his  brain  when  —  bless  my  soul  !  —  he 
actually  intimated,  first,  that  I,  and  then,  that  Mr.  Simpson, 
had  killed  his  nephew  ! " 

"He  thinks,  now,  that  I,  or  Magnolia  Pendragon,  may 
have  done  it,  —  the  hateful  creature  ! "  said  Flora,  passion- 
ately. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  assented  Mr.  Dibble,  nodding.  "  When 
he  has  you_in  his  head,  my  dear,  he  himself  must  clearly  be 
out  of  it.  You  shall  stay  here  and  take  tea  with  me,  and 
then  I  will  take  you  to  French's  Hotel  for  your  accommo- 
dation during  the  night." 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  him  tenderly  help  her  off  with  her 
bonnet  ;  and  suggestive  to  hear  him  say,  that  if  a  man  could 
only  take  off  his  brains  as  easily  as  a  woman  hers,  what  a 
relief  it  would  be  to  him  occasionally.  It  was  curious  to  see 
him  peep  into  her  bottle-filled  satchel,  with  an  old  man's 
freedom ;  and  to  hear  him  audibly  wonder  thereat,  whether 
after  all,  men  were  any  more  addicted  than  women  to  the 
social  glass  when  they  wanted  to  put  a  better  face  on  affairs. 
And,  after  the  waiter,  bringing  him  toast  and  tea  from  a 
neighboring  restaurant,  had  brought  an  additional  slice  and 
cup  for  the  guest,  it  was  pleasant  to  behold  him  smiling 
across  the  office-table  at  that  guest,  and  encouraging  her  to 
eat  as  much  as  she  would  if  a  member  of  his  sex  were  not 
looking.  _ 


216  AN  ESCAPE. 

"  It  must  be  absurdly  ridiculous  to  stay  here  all  alone,  as 
you  do,  sir,"  observed  Flora. 

"But  I  am  not  always  alone,"  answered  Mr.  Dibble. 
"My  clerk,  Mr.  Bladams,  now  taking  a  vacation  in  the 
country,  is  generally  here  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  I  may  lose 
'him  before  long.  He's  turned  literary." 

"  How  perfectly  frightful ! "  said  Miss  Potts. 

"  He  has  set  up  for  a  genius,  my  child,  and  is  now  en- 
gaged upon  a  great  American  novel.  Discontented  with  the 
law,  he  is  giving  great  attention  to  this  ;  but  Free  Trade 
will  not,  I  am  afraid,  allow  any  American  publisher  to  bring 
it  out." 

"  Free  Trade  ?  "  repeated  Flora. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  Free  Trade  ;  that  is,  while  American  pub- 
lishers can  steal  foreign  novels  for  nothing,  they  are  not 
going  to  pay  anything  for  native  fiction." 

Yawning  behind  her  hand,  the  Flowerpot  murmured  some- 
thing about  Free  Trade  being  positively  absurd,  and  her 
guardian  went  on  :  — 

"Nevertheless,  Mr.  Bladams  is  going  on  with  his  work, 
which  he  calls  'The  Amateur  Detective  ;'  and  if  it  ever  does 
come  out  you  shall  have  a  copy.  —  But,  by  the  by,"  added 
the  lawyer,  suddenly,  "  you  have  not  yet  fully  described  to 
me  the  interview  in  which  poor  Mr.  Edwin's  uncle  offered  to 
become  your  husband." 

She  ^jave  him  a  full  history  of  the  Ritualistic  organist's 
handsome  offer  to  her  of  his  H.  and  H.  ;  adding  her  own 


AN  ESCAPE.  217 

final  decision  in  the  matter  as  precipitated  by  the  possibility 

^> 
of  a  General  European  War;  and  Mr.  Dibble  heard  the 

whole  with  an  air  of  studious  attention. 

"  Although  I  have  certainly  no  particular  reason  for  be- 
friending Mr.  Bumstead,"  said  he,  reflectively,  "  I  shall  take 
measures  to  keep  him  from  you.  Now  come  with  me  to 
French's  Hotel.  *  To-morrow  I  will  call  there  for  you,  you 
know,  and  then,  perhaps,  you  may  be  taken  to  see  your 
friend,  Miss  Pendragon." 

Having  obtained  for  his  ward  a  room  in  the  hotel  named, 
and  seen  her  safely  to  its  shelter,  the  good  old  lawyer  visited 
the  bar-room  of  the  establishment,  for  the  purpose  of  ascer- 
taining whether  any  evil-disposed  person  could  get  in  through 
that  way  for  the  disturbance  of  his  fair  charge.  After  which 
he  departed  for  his  home  in  Gowanus. 

*  In  the  original,  FurnivaPs  Inn. 

19 


218  BENTHAM  TO  ~~THE  RESCUE. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

BENTHAM   TO   THE   RESCUE. 

EUROPEAN  travellers  in  this  country  —  especially  if  one 
economical  condition  of  their  coming  hither  has  not  been 
the  composition  of  works  of  imagination  on  America,  suffi- 
ciently contemptuous  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the  trip  — 
have,  occasionally  —  and  particularly  if  they  have  been  in- 
vited to  write  for  New  York  magazines,  take  professorships 
in  native  colleges,  or  lecture  on  the  encouraging  Conti- 
nental progress  of  scientific  atheism  before  Boston  audi- 
ences ;  —  such  travellers,  we  say,  convinced  that  they  shall 
lose  no  money  by  it,  but,  on  the  contrary,  rather  sanguine 
of  making  a  little  thereby  in  the  long  run,  have  occasionally 
remarked,  that,  in  the  United  States,  women  journeying 
alone  are  treated  with  a  chivalric  courtesy  and  deference 
not  so  habitually  practised  in  any  other  second-class  new- 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth.* 

What,  oh,  what  can  be  more  true  than  this  ?  A  lady  well- 
stricken  in  years,  and  of  adequate  protraction  of  nose  and 
rectilinear  undeviation  of  figure,  can  travel  alone  from  Maine 
to  Florida  with  as  perfect  immunity  from  offensive  mascu- 

*  Shades  of  Quintilian  and  Dr.  Johnson,  what  a  sentence  ! 


BENTHAM  TO   THE  RESCUE.  219 

line  intrusion  as  though  she  were  guarded  by  a  regiment ; 
while  a  somewhat  younger  girl,  with,  curls  and  an  innocent 
look,  can  not  appear  unaccompanied  by  an  escort  in  an 
American  omnibus,  car,  ferry-boat,  or  hotel,  without  appeal- 
ing at  once  to  the  finest  fatherly  feelings  of  every  manly 
middle-aged  observer  whose  wife  is  not  watching  him,  and 
exciting  as  general  a  desire  to  make  her  trip  socially  delight- 
ful as  though  each  gentlemanly  eye  seeking  hers  were  indeed 
that  of  a  tender  sire. 

Thus,  although  Miss  Potts' s  lonely  stay  in  her  hotel  had 
been  so  brief,  the  mysterious  American  instinct  of  chivalry 
had  discovered  it  very  early  on  the  first  morning  after  her 
arrival,  and  she  arose  from  her  delicious  sleep  to  find  at 
least  half  a  dozen  written  offers  of  hospitality  from  generous 
strangers,  sticking  under  her  door.  Understanding  that  she 
was  sojourning  without  natural  protectors  in  a  strange  city, 
the  thoughtful  writers,  who  appeared  to  be  chiefly  Western 
men  of  implied  immense  fortunes,  begged  her  (by  the  deli- 
cate name  of  "Fair  Unknown")  to  take  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  they  were  stopping  at  the  same  hotel,  and 
would  protect  her  from  all  harm  with  their  lives.  In  proof 
of  this  unselfish  disposition  on  their  parts,  several  of  them 
were  respectively  ready  to  take  her  to  a  circus-matin6e,  or 
to  drive  in  Central  Park,  on  that  very  day  :  and  her  prompt 
acceptance  of  these  signal  evidences  of  a  disinterested 
friendship  for  womanhood  without  a  natural  protector  could 
not  be  more  simply  indicated  to  those  who  now  freely  of- 


220  BENTHAM  TO    THE  RESCUE. 

fered  such  friendship,  than  by  her  dropping  her  fork  twice 
at  the  public  breakfast  table,  or  sending  the  waiter  back 
three  times  with  the  boiled  eggs  to  have  them  cooked 
rightly. 

Flora  had  completed  her  chemical  toilet,  put  all  the 
bottles,  jars,  and  small  round  boxes  back  into  her  satchel 
again,  and  sat  down  to  a  second  reading  of  these  gratifying 
.intimations  that  a  prepossessing  female  orphan  is  not  neces- 
sarily without  assiduous  paternal  guardianship  at  her  com- 
mand wherever  there  are  Western  fathers,  when  Mr.  Dibble 
appeared,  as  he  had  promised,  accompanied  by  Gospeller 
Simpson. 

"  Miss  Carowthers  was  so  excited  by  your  sudden  flight, 
Miss  Potts,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  she  came  at  once  to  me 
and  Oldy  with  your  farewell  note,  and  would  not  stop  saying 
'  Did  you  ever ! '  until,  to  restrain  my  aggravated  mother 
from  fits,  I  promised  to  follow  you  to  your  guardian's  and 
ascertain  what  your  good-by  note  would  have  meant,  if  it 
had  actually  been  punctuated." 

"Our  reverend  friend  reached  me  about  an  hour  ago," 
added  Mr.  Dibble,  "  saying,  that  a  farewell  note  without  a 
comma,  colon,  semicolon,  or  period  in  it,  and  with  every 
other  word  beginning  with  a  capital,  and  underscored,  was 
calculated  to  drive  friends  to  distraction.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  reminding  him,  my  dear,  that  young  girls  from 
boarding-school  should  hardly  be  expected  to  have  advanced 
as  far  as  English  composition  in  their  French  and  musical 


BENTHAM  TO    THE  RESCUE.  221 

studies ;  and  I  also  related  to  him  what  you  had  told  me 
of  Mr.  Bumstead." 

"And  I  don't  know  that,  under  the  circumstances,  you 
could  do  a  better  thing  than  you  have  done,"  continued  the 
Gospeller.  "  Mr.  Bumstead,  himself,  explains  your  flight 
upon  the  supposition  that  you  were  possibly  engaged  with 
myself,  my  mother,  Mr.  Dibble,  and  the  Pendragons,  in  kill- 
ing poor  Mr.  Drood." 

"Oh,  oughtn't  he  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  when  he 
knows  that  I  never  did  kill  any  absurd  creature,"  cried 
the  Flowerpot,  in  earnest  deprecation.  "And  just  to  think 
of  darling  Magnolia,  too,  with  her  poor,  ridiculous  brother  ! 
You're  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Dibble,  and  I  should  think  you  could 
get  them  a  habeas  corpus,  or  a  divorce,  or  some  other  per- 
fectly absurd  thing  about  courts,  that  would  make  the  judges 
tell  the  juries  to  bring  them  in  Not  Guilty." 

Fixing  upon  the  lovely  young  reasonej  a  look  expressive 
of  his  affectionate  wonder  at  her  inspired  perception  of  legal 
possibilities,  the  old  lawyer  said,  that  the  first  thing  in  order 
was  a  meeting  between  herself  and  Miss  Pendragon ;  which, 
as  it  could  scarcely  take  place  (all  things  considered)  with 
propriety  in  the  private  room  of  that  lady's  brother,  nor 
without  publicity  in  his  own  office,  or  in  a  hotel,  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  bring  about. 

And  here  we  have  an  example  of  that  difference  between 
novels  and  real  life  which  has  been  illustrated  more  than  once 
before  in  this  conscientious  American  Adaptation  of  what  all 


222  BENTHAM  TO   THE  RESCUE. 

our  profoundly  critical  native  journals  pronounce  the  "  most 
elaborately  artistic  work  "  of  the  grandest  of  English  novel- 
ists. In  an  equivalent  situation  of  real  life,  Mr.  Dibble's 
quandary  would  not  have  been  easily  relieved ;  but,  by  the 
magic  of  artistic  fiction,  the  particular  kind  of  extemporized 
character  absolutely  necessary  to  help  him  and  the  novel 
continuously  along  was  at  that  moment  coming  up  the 
stairs  ol  the  hotel.* 

At  that  critical  instant,  a  servant  knocked,  to  say,  that 
there  was  a  gentleman  below,  "  with  a  face  as  long  as  me 
arrum,  sir,  who  axed  me  was  there  a  man  here  av  the  name 
av  Simpson,  miss  ?  " 

"  It  is  John  —  it  is  Mr.  Bumstead  ! "  shrieked  Flora,  hast- 
ening involuntarily  toward  a  mirror,  —  "  and  just  see  how 
my  dress  is  wrinkled !  " 

"  My  name  is  Bentham  —  Jeremy  Bentham,"  said  a  deep 
voice  in  the  doorway ;  and  there  entered  a  gloomy  figure, 
with  smoky,  light  hair,  a  curiously  long  countenance,  and 
black  worsted  gloves.  "  Simpson  !  —  Old  Octavius  !  —  did 
you  never,  never  see  me  before  ?  " 

"  If  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken,"  returned  the  Gospeller, 
sternly,  "  I  saw  you  standing  in  the  bar-room  of  the  hotel, 
just  now,  as  we  came  up." 

"Yes,"  sighed  the  stranger,  "I  was  there  —  waiting  for  a 

*  Quite  independently  of  any  specific  design  to  that  end  by  the  Adapter,  this  Adap- 
tation, carefully  following  the  original  narrative,  as  it  does,  can  not  avoid  acting  as  a 
kind  of  practical  —  and,  of  course,  somewhat  exaggerative — commentary  upon  what 
is  strained,  forced,  or  out  of  the  line  of  average  probabilities,  in  the  work  Adapted. 


BENTHAM  TO    THE  RESCUE.  223 

Western  friend  —  when  you  passed  in.  And  has  sorrow, 
then,  so  changed  me,  that  you  do  not  know  me  ?  Alas ! 
Alack!  Woe's  me!" 

"Bentham,  you  say?"  cried  the  Ritualistic  clergyman, 
with  a  start,  and  sudden  change  of  countenance.  "  Surely 
you're  not  the  rollicking  fellow-student  who  saved  my  life  at 
Yale." 

"  I  am !  I  am ! "  sobbed  the  other,  smiting  his  bosom. 
"While  studying  theology,  you'd  gone  to  sleep  in  bed  read- 
ing the  Decameron.  I,  in  the  next  room,  suddenly  smelt  a 
smell  of  wood  burning.  Breaking  into  your  apartment,  I 
saw  your  candle  fallen  upon  your  pillow  and  your  head  on 
fire.  Believing  that,  if  neglected,  the  flames  would  spread 
to  some  vital  part,  I  seized  the  water-pitcher  and  dashed  the 
contents  upon  you.  Up  you  instantly  sprang,  with  a  theo- 
logical expression  upon  your  lips,  and  engaged  me  in  violent 
single  combat.  "  Madman  ! "  roared  I,  "is  it  thus  you  treat 
one  who  has  saved  your  life  ?"  Falling  upon  the  floor,  with 
a  black  eye,  you  at  once  consented  to  be  reconciled ;  and 
from  that  hour  forth,  we  were  both  members  of  the  same 
secret  society." 

Leaping  forward,  the  Reverend  Octavius  wrung  both  the 
black  worsted  gloves  of  Mr.  Bentham,  and  introduced  the 
latter  to  the  old  lawyer  and  his  ward. 

"  He  did  indeed  save  all  but  my  head  from  the  conflagra- 
tion, and  extinguished  that,  even,  before  it  was  much 


224:  BENTHAM  TO    THE  RESCUE. 

charred,"  cried  the  grateful  Ritualist,  with  marked  emotion. 
—  "  But,  Jeremy,  why  this  aspect  of  depression  ?" 

"Octavius,  old  friend,"  said  Bentham,  his  hollow  voice 
quivering,  "  let  no  man  boast  himself  upon  the  gayety  of  his 
youth,  and  fondly  dream — poor  self-deceiver! — that  his 
maturity  may  be  one  of  revelry.  You  know  what  I  once 
was.  Now  I  am  conducting  a  first-class  American  Comic 
Paper. 

Commiseration,  earnest  and  unaffected,  appeared  upon 
eveiy  countenance,  and  Mr.  Dibble  was  the  first  to  break 
the  ensuing  deep  silence. 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  then,"  observed  the  good  lawyer, 
quietly,  "the  scene  of  your  daily  loss  of  spirits  is  in  the 
same  building  with  our  young  friend,  Mr.  Pendragon,  whom 
you  may  know." 

"  I  do  know  him,  sir ;  and  that  his  sister  has  lately  come 
unto  him.  His  room,  by  means  of  outside  shutters,  was 
once  a  refuge  to  me  from  the  Man"  — here  Mr.  Bentham' s 
face  flamed  with  inconceivable  hatred — "who  came  to  tell 
me  just  how  an  American  first-class  Comic  Paper  should  be 
conducted." 

"  At  what  time  does  your  rush  of  subscribers  cease  ?  " 
"  As  soon  as  I  begin  to  charge  anything  for  my  paper." 
"  And  the  newsmen,  who  take  it  by  the  week,  —  what  is 
their  usual  time  for  swarming  in  your  office?" 

"  On  the  day  appointed  for  the  return  of  unsold  copies." 
"  Then  I  have  an  idea,"  said  Mr.  Dibble.     "  It  appears 


BENTHAM  TO    THE  RESCUE.  225 

to  me,  Mr.  Bentham,  that  your  office,  besides  being  so  near 
Mr.  Pendragon's  quarters,  furnishes  all  the  conditions  for  a 
perfectly  private  confidential  interview  between  this  young 
lady  here,  and  her  friend,  Miss  Pendragon.  Mr.  Simpson, 
if  you  approve,  be  kind  enough  to  acquaint  Mr.  Bentham 
with  Miss  Potts' s  history,  without  mentioning  names ;  and 
explain  to  him,  also,  why  the  ladies'  interview  should  take 
place  in  a  spot  whither  that  singular  young  man,  Mr. 
Bumstead,  would  not  be  likely  to  prowl,  if  in  town,  in  his 
inspection  of  umbrellas." 

The  Gospeller  hurriedly  related  the  material  points  of 
Flora's  history  to  his  recovered  friend,  who  moaned  with  all 
the  more  cheerful  parts,  and  seemed  to  think  that  the  seri- 
ous ones  might  be  worked-up  in  comic  miss-spelling  for  his 
paper.  —  "For  there  is  nothing  more  humorous  in  human 
life,"  said  he,  gloomily,  "  than  the  defective  orthography  of 
a  fashionable  young  girl's  education  for  the  solemnity 
of  matrimony." 

Finally,  they  all  set  off  for  the  appointed  place  of  retire- 
ment, upon  nearing  which  Mr.  Dibble  volunteered  to  remain 
outside  as  a  guard  against  any  possible  interruption.  The 
Gospeller  led  the  way  up  the  dark  stairs  of  the  building, 
when  they  had  gained  it ;  and  the  Flowerpot  following,  on 
Jeremy  Bentham's  arm,  could  not  help  glancing  shyly  up 
into  the  melancholy  face  of  her  escort,  occasionally.  "  Do 
you  never  smile?"  she  could  not  help  asking. 
8* 


226  BENTHAM  TO   THE  RESCUE. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  mournfully,  "sometimes:  when  I  clean 
my  teeth." 

No  more  was  said ;  for  they  were  entering  the  room  of 
which  the  tone  and  atmosphere  were  those  of  a  receiving- 
vault. 


A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF  THINGS.  227 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  CONFUSED    STATE   OF   THINGS. 

THE  principal  office  of  the  Comic  Paper  was  one  of  those 
amazingly  unsympathetic  rooms  in  which  the  walls,  windows, 
and  doors  all  have  a  stiff,  unsalient  aspect  of  the  most  hard- 
finished  indifference  to  every  emotion  of  humanity,  and  a 
perfectly  rigid  insensibility  to  the  pleasures  or  pains  of 
the  tenants  within  their  impassive  shelter.  In  the  whole 
configuration  of  the  heartless,  uncharacterized  place,  there 
was  not  one  gracious  inequality  to  lean  against;  not  a 
ledge  to  rest  elbow  upon ;  not  a  panel,  not  even  a  stove- 
pipe hole,  to  become  dearly  familiar  to  the  wistful  eye  ;  not 
so  much  as  a  genial  crack  in  the  plastering,  or  a  companion- 
able rattle  in  casement,  or  a  little  human  obstinacy  in  a 
door  to  base  some  kind  of  an  acquaintance  upon  and  make 
one  feel  less  lonely.  Through  the  grim,  untwinkling  win- 
dows, gaping  sullenly  the  wrong  way  with  iron  shutters, 
came  a  discouraged  light,  strained  through  the  narrow  inter- 
vals of  the  dusty  roofs  above,  to  discover  a  large  coffin- 
colored  desk  surmounted  by  ghastly  busts  of  Hervey,  Keble, 
and  Blair ;  *  a  smaller  desk,  over  which  hung  a  picture  of 

*  Author  of  "The  Grave." 


228  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

the  Tomb  of  Washington,  and  at  which  sat  a  pallid  assistant- 
editor  in  deep  mourning,  opening  the  comic  contributions 
received  by  last  mail ;  a  still  smaller  desk,  for  the  nominal 
writer  of  subscription-wrappers;  files  of  the  Evangelist, 
Observer,  and  Christian  Union  hanging  along  the  wall ;  a 
dead  caq^et  of  churchyard-green  on  the  floor;  and  a  print 
of  Mr.  Parke  Godwin  just  above  the  mantel  of  monumental 
marble. 

Upon  finding  themselves  in  this  temple  of  Momus,  and 
observing  that  its  peculiar  arrangement  of  sunshine  made 
their  complexions  look  as  though  they  had  been  dead  a  few 
days,  Gospeller  Simpson  and  the  Flowerpot  involuntarily 
spoke  in  whispers  behind  their  hands. 

"  Does  that  room  belong  to  your  establishment,  also, 
Bentham?"  whispered  the  Gospeller,  pointing  rather  fear- 
fully, as  he  spoke,  towards  a  side -door  leading  apparently 
into  an  adjoining  apartment. 

"Yes,"  was  the  low  response. 

"  Is  there  —  is  there  anybody  dead  in  there  ?  "  whispered 
Mr.  Simpson,  tremulously. 

.« No.—  Not  yet." 

"  Then,"  whispered  the  Ritualistic  clergyman,  "  you 
might  step  in  there,  Miss  Potts,  and  have  your  interview 
with  Miss  Pendragon,  whom  Mr.  Bentham  will,  I  am  sure, 
cause  to  be  summoned  from  upstairs." 

The  assistant-editor  of  the  Comic  Paper  stealing  softly 
from  the  office  to  call  the  other  young  lady  down,  Mr.  Jer- 


A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS.  229 

emy  Bentham  made  a  sign  that  Flora  should  follow  him  to 
the  supplementary  room  indicated ;  his  low-spirited  manner 
being  as  though  he  had  said :  "  If  you  wish  to  look  at  the 
body,  miss,  I  will  now  show  you  the  way." 

Leaving  the  Gospeller  lost  in  dark  abstraction  near  the 
black  mantel,  the  Flowerpot  allowed  the  sexton  of  the 
establishment  to  conduct  her  funereally  into  the  place 
assigned  for  her  interview,  and  stopped  aghast  before  a  huge 
black  object  standing  therein. 

"What's  this?"  she  gasped,  almost  hysterically. 

"  Only  a  safe,"  said  Mr.  Bentham,  with  inexplicable  bit- 
terness of  tone.  "  Merely  our  fire-and-burglar-proof  recep- 
tacle for  the  money  constantly  pouring  in  from  first-class 
American  Comic  Journalism."  —  Here  Mr.  Bentham  slapped 
his  forehead  passionately,  checked  something  like  a  sob  in 
his  throat,  and  abruptly  returned  to  the  main  office. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  he  closed  the  door  of  communica- 
tion behind  hinij  when  another  door,  opening  from  the  hall, 
was  noiselessly  unlatched,  and  Magnolia  Pendragon  glided 
into  the  arms  of  her  friend. 

"  Flora ! "  murmured  the  Southern  girl,  "  I  can  scarcely 
credit  my  eyes !  It  seems  so  long  since  we  last  met ! 
You've  been  getting  a  new  bonnet,  I  see." 

"It's  like  an  absurd  dream ! "  responded  the  Flowerpot, 
wonderingly  caressing  her.  "I've  thought  of  you  and  your 
poor,  ridiculous  brother  twenty  times  a  day.  How  much 


230  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

you  must  have  gone  through  here  !     Are  they  wearing  skirts 
full,  or  scant,  this  season  ?  " 

"  About  medium,  dear.  But  how  do  you  happen  to  be 
here,  in  Mr.  Bentham's  office?" 

In  answer  to  this  question,  Flora  related  all  that  had  hap- 
pened at  Bumsteadville  and  since  her  flight  from  thence ; 
concluding  by  warning  Magnolia,  that  her  possession  of  a 
black  alpaca  waist,  slightly  worn,  had  subjected  her  to  the 
ominous  suspicion  of  the  Ritualistic  organist. 

"  I  scorn  and  defy  the  suspicions  of  that  enemy  of  the 
persecuted  South,  and  high-handed  wooer  of  exclusively 
Northern  women  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Pendragon,  vehemently. 
"  Is  this  Mr.  Bentham  married  ?  "  ' 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  Is  he  visiting  any  one  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  think  so,  dear." 

"Then,"  added  Magnolia,  thoughtfully,  "if  dear  Mr. 
Dibble  approves,  he  might  be  a  friend  to  Montgomery  and 
myself;  and,  by  being  so  near  us,  protect  us  both  from 
Mr.  Bumstead.  Just  think,  dear  Flora,  what  heaps  of  sor- 
row I  should  endure,  if  that  base  man's  suspicions  about 
my  alpaca  waist  should  be  only  a  pretence,  to  frighten  me 
into  ultimately  receiving  his  addresses." 

"I  don't  think  there's  any  danger,  love,"  said  Miss  Potts, 
rather  sharply. 

"Why,  Flora,  precious?" 


A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS.  231 

"  Oh,  because  he's  so  absurdly  fastidious,  you  know, 
about  regularity  of  features  in  women." 

"  More  than  he  is  about  brains,  I  should  think,  dear,  from 
what  you  tell  me  of  his  making  love  to  you." 

Here  both  young  ladies  trembled  very  much,  and  said 
they  never,  never  would  have  believed  it  of  each  other ;  and 
were  only  reconciled  when  Flora  sobbed  that  she  was  a 
poor  unmarried  orphan,  and  Miss  Pendragon  moaned  pite- 
ously  that  an  unwedded  Southern  girl  without  money  had 
better  go  away  somewhere  in  the  desert,  with  her  crushed 
brother,  and  die  at  once  for  their  down-trodden  section. 
Then,  indeed  they  embraced  tearfully ;  and,  in  proof  of  the 
perfect  restoration  of  their  devoted  friendship,  agreed  never 
to  marry  if  they  could  avoid  it,  and  told  each  other  the 
prices  of  all  their  best  clothes. 

"You  won't  tell  your  brother  that  I've  been  here?"  said 
the  Flowerpot.  "  I'm  so  absurdly  afraid  that  he  can't  help 
blaming  me  for  causing  some  of  his  trouble." 

"  Can't  I  tell  him,  even  if  it  would  serve  to  amuse  him  in 
his  desolation  ?"  asked  the  sister,  persuasively.  "I  want  to 
see  him  smile  again,  just  as  he  does  some  days  when  a  hand- 
organ-man's  monkey  climbs  up  to  our  windows  from  the 
street." 

"  Well,  you  may  tell  him,  then,  you  absurd  thing ! "  re- 
turned Flora,  blushing;  and,  with  another  embrace,  they 
parted,  and  the  deeply  momentous  interview  was  over. 

When  Miss  Potts  and  Mr.  Simpson  rejoined  Mr.  Dibble, 


232  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

in  the  office  of  the  latter,  across  the  street,  it  was  decided 
that  the  flighty  young  girl  should  be  made  less  expensive  to 
her  friends  by  temporary  accommodation  in  an  economical 
boarding-house,  and  that  the  Gospeller,  returning  to  Bum- 
steadville,  should  persuade  Miss  Carowthers  to  come  and 
stay  with  her  until  the  time  for  the  reopening  of  the  Macas- 
sar Female  College. 

Subsequently,  with  his  homeless  ward  upon  his  arm,  the 
benignant  old  lawyer  underwent  a  series  of  scathing  rebuffs 
from  the  various  high-strung  descendants  of  better  days  at 
whose  once  luxurious  but  now  darkened  homes  he  applied 
for  the  desired  board.  Time  after  time  was  he  reminded, 
by  unspeakably  majestic  middle-aged  ladies  with  bass  voices, 
that  when  a  fine  old  family  loses  its  former  wealth  by  those 
vicissitudes  of  fortune  which  bring  out  the  noblest  traits  of 
character  and  compel  the  letting-out  of  a  few  damp  rooms, 
it  is  significant  of  a  weak  understanding,  or  a  depraved  dis- 
respect of  the  dignity  of  adversity,  to  expect  that  such  fami- 
lies shall  lose  money  and  lower  their  hereditary  high  tone  by 
waiting  upon  a  parcel  of  young  girls.  A  few  single  Gentle- 
men desiring  all  the  comforts  of  a  home  would  not  be  con- 
sidered insulting  unless  they  objected  to  the  butter,  and  a 
couple  of  married  Childless  Gentlemen  with  their  wives 
might  be  pardoned  for  respectfully  applying ;  but  the  idea  of 
a  parcel  of  young  girls  !  Wherever  he  went,  the  reproach 
of  not  being  a  few  Single  Gentlemen,  or  a  couple  of  married 
Childless  Gentlemen  with  their  wives,  abashed  Mr.  Dibble 


A   CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS.  233 

into  helpless  retreat;  while  Flora's  increasing  guilty  con- 
sciousness of  the  implacable  sentiment  against  her  as  a 
parcel  of  young  girls,  culminated  at  last  in  tears.  Finally, 
when  the  miserable  lawyer  was  beginning  to  think  strongly 
of  the  House  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  or  the  Orphan  Asylum, 
as  a  last  resort,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  Mrs.  Skam- 
merhorn,*  a  distant  widowed  aunt  of  his  clerk,  Mr.  Bladams, 
had  been  known  to  live  upon  boarders  in  Bleecker  Street ; 
and  thither  he  dragged  hastily  the  despised  object  on  his 
arm. 

Being  a  widow  without  children,  and  relieved  of  nearly  all 
the  weaknesses  of  her  sex  by  the  systematic  refusal  of  the 
opposite  sex  to  give  her  any  encouragement  in  them,  Mrs. 
Skammerhorn  was  a  relentless  advocate  of  Woman's  In- 
alienable Rights,  and  only  wished  that  Man  could  just  see 
himself  in  that  contemptible  light  in  which  he  was  distinctly 
visible  to  One,  who  sooner  than  be  his  Legal  Slave,  would 
never  again  accompany  him  to  the  Altar. 

"  I  tell  you  candidly,  Dibble,"  said  she,  in  answer  to  his 
application,  "that  if  you  had  applied  to  be  taken  yourself,  I 
should  have  said  '  Never  ! '  and  at  once  called  in  the  police. 
Since  Skammerhorn  died  delirious,  I  have  always  refused  to 
have  his  sex  in  the  house,  and  I  tell  you,  frankly,  that  I  con- 
sider it  hardly  human.  If  this  girl  of  yours,  however,  and 
the  elderly  female  whom,  you  say,  she  expects  to  join  her  in 
a  few  days,  will  make  themselves  generally  useful  about  the 

*  In  the  original,  Mrs.  Billickin,  "of  Southampton  Street,  Bloomsbury  Square." 


234  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

house,  and  try  to  be  companions  to  me,  I  can  give  them  the 
very  room  where  Skammerhorn  died." 

Perceiving  that  Flora  turned  pale,  her  guardian  whispered 
to  her  that  she  would  not  be  alone  in  the  room,  at  any  rate ; 
and  then  respectfully  asked  whether  the  late  Mr.  Skammer- 
horn had  ever  been  seen  around  the  house  since  his  death  ? 

"  To  be  frank  with  you,"  answered  the  widow,  "  I  did 
think  that  I  came  upon  him  once  in  the  closet,  with  his  back 
to  me,  as  often  I'd  seen  the  weak  creature  in  life  going  after 
a  bottle  on  the  top  shelf.  But  it  was  only  his  coat  hanging 
there,  with  his  boots  standing  below  and  my  muff  hanging 
over  to  look  like  his  head." 

"  You  think,  then,"  said  Mr.  Dibble,  inquiringly,  "  that  it 
is  such  a  room  as  two  ladies  could  occupy,  without  awaking 
at  midnight  with  a  strange  sensation  and  thinking  they  felt 
a  supernatural  presence  ?  " 

"  Not  if  the  bed  was  rightly  searched  beforehand,  and  all 
the  joints  well  peppered  with  magnetic  powder,"  was  the 
assuring  answer. 

"  Could  we  see  the  room,  madam  ?  " 

"  If  the  shutters  were  open  you  could  ;  as  they're  not," 
returned  the  widow,  not  offering  to  stir  ;  "  but  ever  since 
Skammerhorn,  starting  up  with  a  howl,  said,  '  Here  he  comes 
again,  red-hot ! '  and  tried  to  jump  out  of  the  window,  I've 
never  opened  them  for  any  single  man,  and  never  shall.  I 
couldn't  bear  it,  Dibble,  to  see  one  of  your  sex  in  that  room 
again,  and  hope  you  will  not  insist." 


A    CONFUSED  STATE    OF   THINGS.  235 

Broken  in  spirit  as  he  was  by  preceding  humiliations,  the 
old  lawyer  had  not  the  heart  to  contest  the  point,  and  it  was 
agreed,  that,  upon  the  arrival  of  Miss  Carowthers  from  Bum- 
steadville,  she  and  Flora  should  accept  the  memorable  room 
in  question. 

Upon  their  way  back  to  the  hotel,  guardian  and  ward  met 
Mr.  Bentham,  who,  from  the  moment  of  becoming  a  charac- 
ter in  their  Story,  had  been  possessed  with  that  mysterious 
madness  for  open-air  exercise  which  afflicted  every  acquain- 
tance of  the  late  Edwin  Drood,  and  now  saluted  them  in  the 
broiling  street  and  solemnly  besought  their  company  for  a 
long  walk.  "  It  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  the  Comic  Paper 
man,  who  had  resumed  his  black  worsted  gloves,  "  that  Mr. 
Dibble  and  Miss  Potts  may  be  willing  to  aid  me  in  walking- 
off  some  of  the  darker  suicidal  inclinations  incident  to  first- 
class  Humorous  Journalism  in  America.  Reading  the 
'  proof  of  an  instalment  of  a  comic  serial  now  publishing  in 
my  paper,  I  contracted  such  gloom,  that  a  frantic  rush  into 
the  fresh  air  was  my  only  hope  of  an  escape  from  self-de- 
struction. Let  us  walk,  if  you  please." 

Led  on,  in  the  profoundest  melancholy,  by  this  chastened 
character,  Mr.  Dibble  and  the  Flowerpot  were  presently 
toiling  hotly  through  a  succession  of  grievous  side-streets, 
and  forlorn  short-cuts  to  dismal  ferries ;  the  state  of  their 
conductor's  spirits  inclining  him  to  find  a  certain  refreshingly 
solemn  joy  in  the  horrors  of  pedestrianism  imposed  by  ob- 
structions of  merchandise  on  sidewalks,  and  repeated  climb- 


236  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

ings  over  skids  extending  from  store  doors  to  drays.  In- 
spired to  an  extraordinary  flow  of  malignant  animal  spirits 
by  the  complexities  of  travel  incident  to  the  odorous  mazes 
of  some  hundred  odd  kegs  of  salt  mackerel  and  boxes  of 
brown  soap  impressively  stacked  before  one  very  enterprising 
Commission  house,  Mr.  Bentham  lightened  the  journey  with 
anecdotes  of  self-made  Commission  men  who  had  risen  in 
life  by  breaking  human  legs  and  city  ordinances  ;  and  dwelt 
emotionally  upon  the  scenes  in  the  city  hospitals  when 
ladies  and  gentlemen  were  brought  in,  with  nails  from  the 
hoops  of  sugar-hogsheads  sticking  into  their  feet,  or  limbs 
dislocated  from  too-loftily  piled  firkins  of  butter  falling  upon 
them.  Through  incredible  hardships,  and  amongst  astound- 
ing complications  of  horse-cars,  target  companies,  and  bar- 
rels of  everything,  Mr.  Bentham  also  amused  his  friends  with 
circuits  of  several  of  the  fine  public  markets  of  New  York  ; 
explaining  to  them  the  relations  of  the  various  miasmatic 
smells  of  those  quaint  edifices  with  the  various  devastat- 
ing diseases  of  the  day,  and  expatiating  quite  eloquently 
upon  the  political  corruption  involved  in  the  renting  of  the 
stalls,  and  the  fine  openings  there  were  for  Cholera  and 
Yellow  Fever  in  the  Fish  and  Vegetable  departments. 
Then,  as  a  last  treat,  he  led  his  panting  companions  through 
several  lively  up-hill  blocks  of  drug-mills  and  tobacco  firms, 
to  where  they  had  a  distant  view  of  a  tenement  house  next 
door  to  a  kerosene  factory,  where,  as  he  vivaciously  told 
them,  in  the  event  of  a  fire,  at  least  one  hundred  human 


A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS.  237 

beings  would  be  slowly  done  to  a  turn.  After  which  all  three 
returned  from  their  walk,  firmly  convinced  that  an  unctuous 
vein  of  humor  had  been  conscientiously  worked,  and  ab- 
stractedly wishing  themselves  dead.* 

The  exhilarating  effect  of  the  genial  Comic  Paper  man 
upon  Flora  did  not,  indeed,  pass  away,  until  she  and  Miss 
Carowthers  were  in  their  appointed  quarters  under  the  roof 
of  Mrs.  Skammerhorn,  whither  they  went  immediately  upon 
the  arrival  of  the  elder  spinster  from  Bumsteadville. 

"  It  could  have  been  wished,  my  good  woman,"  said  Miss 
Carowthers,  casting  a  rather  disparaging  look  around  the 
death-chamber  of  the  late  Mr.  Skammerhorn,  "  that  you  had 
assigned  to  educated  single  young  ladies,  like  ourselves,  an 
apartment  less  suggestive  of  Man  in  his  wedded  aspects. 
The  spectacle  of  a  pair  of  pegged  boots  sticking  out  from 
under  a  bed,  and  a  razor  and  a  hone  grouped  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, is  not  such  as  I  should  desire  to  encourage  in  the 
dormitory  of  a  pupil  under  my  tuition." 

"  That's  much  to  be  deplored,  I'm  sure,  Carowthers," 
returned  Mrs.  Skammerhorn,  severely,  "  and  sorry  am  I  that 
I  ever  married,  on  that  particular  account.  I'd  not  have 
done  it,  if  you'd  only  told  me.  But,  seeing  that  I  married 

*  Ordinary  readers,  while  admiring  the  heavy  humor  of  this  unexpected  open-air 
episode,  may  wonder  what  on  earth  it  has  to  do  with  the  Story ;  but  the  cultivated 
few,  understanding  the  ingenious  mechanics  of  novel-writing,  will  appreciate  it  as  a 
most  skilful  and  happy  device  to  cover  the  interval  between  the  hiring  of  Mrs.  Skam- 
merhorn's  room,  and  the  occupation  thereof  by  Flora  and  her  late  teacher  —  another 
instance  of  what  our  profoundly  critical  American  journals  call  "  artistic  elaboration." 
(See  corresponding  Chapter  of  the  original  English  Story.) 


238  A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS. 

Skammerhorn,  and  then  he  died  delirious,  his  boots  and 
razor  must  remain,  just  as  he  often  wished  to  throw  the  for- 
mer at  me  in  his  ravings.  Once  married  is  enough,  say  I ; 
and  those  who  never  were,  through  having  no  proposals, 
must  bear  with  those  who  have,  and  take  things  as  they 
come." 

"There  are  those,  I'd  have  you  know,  Mrs.  Skammer- 
horn, to  whom  proposals  have  been  no  inducement,"  said 
Miss  Carowthers,  sharply ;  "  or,  if  being  made,  and  then  with- 
drawn, have  given  our  sex  opportunities  to  prove,  in  courts 
of  law,  that  damages  can  still  be  got.  I'm  afraid  of  no  Man, 
my  good  woman,  as  a  person  named  Blodgett  once  learned 
from  a  jury ;  but  boots  and  razors  are  not  what  I  would 
have  familiar  to  the  mind  of  one  who  never  had  a  husband 
to  die  in  raging  torments,  nor  yet  has  sued  for  breach." 

"Miss  Potts  is  but  a  chicken,  I'll  admit,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Skammerhorn;  "but  you're  not  such,  Carowthers,  by  many 
a  good  year.  On  the  contrary,  quite  a  hen.  Then,  you 
being  with  her,  if  the  boots  and  razor  make  her  think  she 
sees  that  poor,  weak  Skammerhorn  a-ranging  round  the  room, 
when  in  his  grave  it  is  his  place  to  be,  you've  only  got  to 
say,  '  A  fool  you  are,  and  always  were,'  —  as  often  I,  my- 
self, called  at  him  in  his  lifetime,  — and  off  he'll  go  into  his 
tomb  again  for  fear  of  broomsticks." 

"  Flora,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Carowthers,  turning  with 
dignity  to  her  pupil,  "  if  I  know  anything  of  human  nature, 
the  man  who  has  once  got  away  from  here,  will  stay  away. 


A    CONFUSED  STATE   OF   THINGS.  239 

Only  single  ghosts  have  attachments  for  the  houses  in  which 
they  once  lived.  So,  never  mind  the  boots  and  razor, 
darling ;  which,  after  all,  if  seen  by  peddlers,  or  men  who 
come  to  fix  the  gas,  might  keep  us  safe  from  robbers." 

"As  safe  as  any  man  himself,  young  woman,  with  pistols 
under  his  head  that  he  would  never  dare  to  fire  if  robbers 
were  no  more  than  cats  rampaging,"  added  Mrs.  Skammer- 
horn,  enthusiastically.  "  With  nothing  but  an  old  black  hat 
of  Skamrnerhorn's,  and  walking-cane,  kept  hanging  in  the 
hall,  I  haven't  lost  a  spoon  by  tramps  or  census-takers  for 
six  mortal  years.  So  make  yourselves  at  home,  I  beg  you 
both,  while  I  go  down  and  cook  the  liver  for  our  dinner. 
You'll  find  it  tender  as  a  chicken,  after  what  you've  broke 
your  teeth  upon  in  boarding-schools ;  though  Skammerhorn 
declared  it  made  him  bilious  in  the  second  year,  forgetting 
what  he'd  drank  with  sugar  to  his  taste,  beforehand." 

Thus  was  sweet  Flora  Potts  introduced  to  her  new  home ; 
where,  but  for  looking  down  from  her  windows  at  the 
fashions,  making-up  hundreds  of  bows  of  ribbons  for  her 
neck,  and  making-over  all  her  dresses,  her  woman's  mind 
must  have  been  a  blank.  What  time  Miss  Carowthers  told 
her  all  day  how  she  looked  in  this  or  that  style  of  wearing 
her  hair,  and  read  her  to  sleep  each  night  with  extracts  from 
the  pages  of  cheery  Hannah  More.  As  for  the  object  near- 
est her  young  heart,  to  say  that  she  was  wholly  unruffled  by 
it  would  be  inaccurate ;  but  by  address  she  kept  it  hidden 
from  all  eyes  save  her  own. 


240  GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORN7NG. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

GOING   HOME    IN   THE   MORNING. 


AFTER  having  thrown  all  his  Ritualistic  friends  at  home 
into  a  most  unholy  and  exasperated  condition  of  mind,  by  a 
steady  series  of  vague  remarks  as  to  the  extreme  likelihood 
of  their  united  implication  in  the  possible  deed  of  darkness 
by  which  he  has  lost  a  broadcloth  nephew  and  an  alpaca 
umbrella,  the  mournful  Mr.  Bumstead  is  once  more  awaiting 
the  dawn  in  that  popular  retreat  in  Mulberry  Street  where 
he  first  contracted  his  taste  for  cloves.  The  Assistant- 
Assessor  and  the  Alderman  of  the  Ward  are  again  there, 
tilted  back  against  the  wall  in  their  chairs  ;  their  shares  in 
the  Congressional  Nominating  Convention  held  in  that  room 
earlier  in  the  night  having  left  them  too  weary  for  further 
locomotion.  The  decanters  and  tumblers  hurled  by  the 
Nominating  Convention  over  the  question  of  which  Irish- 
man could  drink  the  most  to  be  nominated,  are  still  scattered 
about  the  floor ;  here  and  there  a  forgotten  slung-shot  marks 
the  places  where  rival  delegations  have  confidently  pre- 
sented their  claims  for  recognition  ;  and  a  few  bullet-holes  in 
the  wall  above  the  bar  enumerate  the  various  pauses  in  the 
great  debate  upon  the  perils  of  the  public  peace  from  Negro 
Suffrage. 


GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORNING.  241 

Reclining  with  great  ease  of  attitude  upon  an  uncushioned 
settee,  the  Ritualistic  organist  is  aroused  from  dreamy  slum- 
ber by  the  turning-over  of  the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  ma- 
jestically motions  for  the  venerable  woman  of  the  house  to 
come  and  brush  the  ashes  from  his  clothes. 

"  Wud  yez  have  it  filled  again,  honey  ?  "  asks  the  woman. 
"  Sure,  wan  pipe  more  would  do  ye  no  harrum." 

"  I'mtooshleepy,"  he  says,  dropping  the  pipe. 

"An'  are  yez  too  shlapey,  asthore,  to  talk  a  little  bissiness 
wid  an  ould  woman?"  she  asks,  insinuatingly.  "Couldn't 
yez  be  afther  payin'  me  the  bit  av  a  schore  I've  got  agin 
ye?" 

Mr.  Bumstead  opens  his  eyes  reproachfully,  and  wishes  to 
know  how  she  can  dare  talk  about  money  matters  to  an 
organist  who,  at  almost  any  moment,  may  be  obliged  to  see 
a  Chinaman  hired  in  his  place  on  account  of  cheapness  ? 

"  Could  the  haythen  crayture  play,  thin  ?  "  she  asks,  won- 
deringly. 

"  Thairvairimitative,"  he  tells  her  ;  —  "  Cookwashiron'  n' 
eatbirdsnests." 

"  An'  vote  would  they,  honey?" 

"Yesh  —  'f  course  —  thairvairimitative,  I  tell  y1,"  snarls 
he  :  "do't-cheapzdirt." 

"  Is  it  vote  chaper  they  would,  the  haythen  naygurs,  than 
daycint,  hardworkin'  white  min  ?  "  she  asks,  excitedly 

"Yesh.     Chinesecheaplabor,"  he  says,  bitterly. 
11 


242  GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORNING. 

"  Och,  hone  ! "  cries  the  woman,  in  anguish ;  "  and  That's 
the  poor  to  do  then,  honey  ?  " 

"  Gowest ;  go'nfarm  !  "  sobs  Mr.  Bumstead,  shedding 
tears.  "I'd  go  m'self  if  a-hadn't  lost  dear-re-er  relative. — 
Nephew'n'  umbrella." 

"  Saint  Payther  !  an'  f 'hat's  that  ?" 

"  Edwins  ! "  cries  the  unhappy  organist,  starting  to  his 
feet  with  a  wild  reel.  "  Th'  pride  of  sunckle' shear t !  I  see  'm 
now,  in'sh'fectionatemanhood,  with  whalebone  ribs,  made 
'f  alpaca,  andyetsoyoung.  '  Help  me  ! '  hiccries ;  '  Pendra- 
gon'sash'nate'n  me  ! '  hiccries —  and  I  go  ! " 

While  uttering  this  extraordinary  burst  of  feeling,  he  has 
advanced  toward  the  door  in  a  kind  of  demoniac  can-can, 
and,  at  its  close,  abruptly  darts  into  the  street  and  frantically 
makes  off. 

"  The  cross  of  the  holy  fathers  ! "  ejaculates  the  woman, 
momentarily  bewildered  by  this  sudden  termination  of  the 
scene.  Then  a  new  expression  comes  swiftly  over  her  face, 
and  she  adds,  in  a  different  tone,  "  Odether-nodether,  but 
ifs  coonin'  as  a  fox  he  is,  and  if  s  off  he's  gone  again  widout 
payin'  me  the  schore  !  Sure,  but  I'll  follow  him,  if  it's  to 
the  wurruld's  ind,  and  see  f  hat  he  is  and  where  he  is." 

Thus  it  happens  that  she  reaches  Bumsteadville  almost  as 
soon  as  the  Ritualistic  organist,  and,  following  him  to  his 
boarding-house,  encounters  Mr.  Tracey  Clews  upon  the 
steps. 


GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORNING.  243 

"  Well  now !  "  calls  that  gentleman,  as  she  looks  inquir- 
ingly at  him ;  "  who  do  you  want  ?  " 

"Him  as  just  passed  in,  your  Honor." 

"  Mr.  Bumstead  ?  " 

"Ah.     Where  does  he  play  the  organ?" 

"  In  St.  Cow's  Church,  down  yonder.  Mass  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  he'll  be  there  in  half  an  hour." 

"  It's  there,  I'll  be,  thin,"  mumbles  the  woman;  "and  bad 
luck  to  it  that  I  didn't  know  before ;  whin  I  came  to  ax  him 
for  me  schore,  and  might  have  gone  home  widout  a  cint  but 
for  a  good  lad  named  Eddy,  who  gave  me  a  sthamp.  —  The 
same  Fddy,  I'm  thinkin',  that  I've  heard  him  mutter  about 
in  his  shlape  at  my  shebang  in  town,  when  he  came  there  on 
political  business." 

After  a  start  and  a  pause,  Mr.  Clews  repeats  his  informa- 
tion concerning  the  Ritualistic  church,  and  then  cautiously 
follows  the  woman  as  she  goes  thither. 

Unconscious  of  the  remarkable  female  figure  intently' 
watching  him  from  under  a  corner  of  the  gallery,  and  occa- 
sionally shaking  a  fist  at  him,  Mr.  Bumstead  attends  to  the 
musical  part  of  the  service  with  as  much  artistic  accuracy  as 
a  hasty  head-bath  and  a  glass  of  soda-water  are  capable  of 
securing.  The  worshippers  are  too  busy  with  risings,  kneel- 
ings,  bowings,  and  miscellaneous  devout  gymnastics,  to  heed 
his  casual  imperfections,  and  his  headache  makes  him 
fiercely  indifferent  to  what  any  one  else  may  think. 


244          GOING  HOME  IN  THE  MORNING. 

Coming  out  of  the  athletic  edifice,  Mr.  Clews  comes  upon 
the  woman  again,  who  seems  excited. 

"Well?"  he  says. 

"  Sure  he  saw  me  in  time  to  shlip  out  of  a  back  dure,"  she 
returns  savagely;  "  but  it's  shtrait  to  his  boording-house  I'm 
going  afther  him,  the  spalpeen." 

Again  Mr.  Tracey  Clews  follows  her ;  but  this  time  he 
allows  her  to  go  up  to  Mr.  Bumstead's  room,  while  he  turns 
into  his  own  apartment  where  his  breakfast  awaits  him.  "  I 
can  make  a  chalk  mark  for  the  trail  I've  struck  to-day," 
he  says ;  and  then  thoughtfully  attacks  the  meal  upon  the 
table.* 

*  At  this  point,  the  English  original  —  the  "  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood  "  —  breaks 
off  forever. 


MR.   CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL.  245 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MR.  CLEWS  AT    HIS   NOVEL.* 

THROWN  into  Rembrandtish  relief  by  the  light  of  a  garish 
kerosene  lamp  upon  the  table :  with  one  discouraged  lock 
of  hair  hanging  over  his  nose,  and  straw  hat  pushed  so  far 
back  from  his  phrenological  brow  that  its  vast  rim  had  the 
fine  artistic  effect  of  a  huge  saintly  nimbus  :  Mr.  Bumstead 
sat  gymnastically  crosswise  in  an  easy-chair,  over  an  arm  of 
which  his  slender  lower  limbs  limply  dangled,  and  elaborate- 
ly performed  one  of  the  grander  works  of  Bach  upon  an  ir- 
ritable accordion.  Now,  winking  with  intense  rapidity,  and 
going  through  the  muscular  motions  of  an  excitable  person 
resolutely  pulling  out  an  obstinate  and  inexplicable  drawer 
from  somewhere  about  his  knees,  he  produced  sustained  and 
mournful  notes,  as  of  canine  distress  in  the  backyard ;  anon, 
with  eyes  nearly  closed  and  the  straw  nimbus  sliding  still 
further  back,  his  manipulation  was  that  of  an  excessively 

*  The  few  remaining  chapters,  which  conclude  this  Adaptation  of"  The  Mystery  of 
Edwin  Drood,"  should  not  be  construed  as  involving  any  presumptuous  attempt  to 
divine  that  full  solution  of  the  latter  which  the  pen  of  its  lamented  author  was  not  per- 
mitted to  reach.  No  further  correspondence  with  the  tenor  of  the  unfinished  English 
story  is  intended  than  the  Adapter  will  endeavor  to  justify  to  his  own  conscience,  and 
that  of  his  reader,  by  at  least  one  unmistakable  foreshadowing  circumstance  of  the 
original  publication. 


24:6  MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS 'NOVEL. 

weary  gentleman  slowly  compressing  a  large  sponge,  there- 
by squeezing  out  certain  choking,  snorting,  guttural  sounds, 
as  of  a  class  softly  studying  the  German  language  in  another 
room ;  and,  finally,  with  an  impatient  start  from  the  unex- 
pected slumber  into  which  the  last  shaky  pianissimo  had  mo- 
mentarily betrayed  him,  he  caught  the  untamed  instrument 
in  mid-air,  just  as  it  was  treacherously  getting  away  from  him, 
frantically  balanced  it  there  for  an  instant  on  all  his  clutching 
finger-tips,  and  had  it  prisoner  again  for  a  renewal  of  the 
weird  symphony. 

Seriously  offended  at  the  discovery  that  he  could  not  drop 
asleep  in  his  own  room,  for  a  minute,  without  the  music 
stopping  and  the  accordion  trying  to  slip  off,  the  Ritualistic 
organist  was  not  at  all  softened  in  temper  by  almost  simul- 
taneously realizing  that  the  further  skirt  of  his  long  linen 
coat  was  standing  out  nearly  straight  from  -his  person,  and, 
apparently,  fluttering  in  a  heavy  draught. 

"  Who'  s-been-ope'nin'-th' -window  ?"  he  sternly  asked. 
"  What's-meaning-'f-such-a-gale-at  thistime-'f-year  ?  " 

"Do  I  intrude  ?"  inquired  a  voice  close  at  hand. 

Looking  very  carefully  along  the  still  extended  skirt  of  his 
coat  toward  exactly  the  point  of  the  compass  from  which 
the  voice  seemed  to  come,  Mr.  Bumstead  at  last  awoke  to 
the  conviction  that  the  tension  of  his  garment  and  its  breezy 
agitation  were  caused  by  the  tugging  of  a  human  figure. 

"  Do  I  intrude  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Tracey  Clews,  dropping 


MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL.  247 

the  skirt  as  he  spoke.  "  Have  I  presumed  too  greatly  in 
coming  to  request  the  favor  of  a  short  private  interview  ?  " 

Slipping  quickly  into  a  more  genteel  but  rather  rigid  po- 
sition on  his  chair,  the  Ritualistic  organist  made  an  airy  pass 
at  him  with  the  accordion. 

"  Any  doors  where  youwasborn,  sir  ?  " 

"  There  were,  Mr.  Bumstead." 

"  People  ever  knock  when  th'  wanted  t'-come-in,  sir  ?  " 

"Why,  I  did  knock  at  your  door,"  answered  Mr.  Clews, 
conciliatingly.  "  I  knocked  and  knocked,  but  you  kept  on 
playing  ;  and  after  I  finally  took  the  liberty  to  come  in  and 
pull  you  by  the  coat,  it  was  ten  minutes  before  you  found  it 
out." 

In  an  attempt  to  look  into  the  speaker's  inmost  soul,  Mr. 
Bumstead  fell  into  a  doze,  from  which  ithe  crash  of  his  ac- 
cordion to  the  floor  aroused  him  in  time  to  behold  a  very 
curious  proceeding  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Clews.  That  gentle- 
man successively  peered  up  the  chimney,  through  the  win- 
dows, and  under  the  furniture  of  the  room,  and  then  stealth- 
ily took  a  seat  near  his  rather  languid  observer. 

"  Mr.  Bumstead,  you  know  me  as  a  temporary  boarder 
under  the  same  roof  with  you.  Other  people  know  me 
merely  as  a  dead-beat.  May  I  trust  you  with  a  secret  ?  " 

A  pair  of  blurred  and  glassy  eyes  looked  into  his  from 
under  a  huge  straw  hat,  and  a  husky  question  followed 
his  :  — 


248  MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL. 

"Did  y  ever  read  Wordsworth's  poem-'f-th'  Excursion, 
sir?" 

"Not  that  I  remember." 

"  Then,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  organist,  with  spasmodic  ani- 
mation—  "then's  not  in  your  hicsperience  to  know  hows- 
sleepy-I  am-jus'-riow." 

"  You  had  a  nephew,"  said  his  subtle  companion,  raising 
his  voice,  and  not  appearing  to  heed  the  last  remark. 

"An'  'numbrella,"  added  Mr.  Bumstead,  feebly. 

"  I  say  you  had  a  nephew,"  reiterated  the  other,  "  and 
that  nephew  disappeared  in  a  very  mysterious  manner. 
Now  I'm  a  literary  man  —  " 

"C'd  tell  that  by  y'r-headerhair,"  murmured  the  Ritualistic 
organist.  "  Left  y"r  wife  yet,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  say  I'm  a  literary  man,"  persisted  Tracey  Clews,  sharp- 
ly. "I'm  going  to  write  a  great  American  Novel,  called 
'  The  Amateur  Detective,'  founded  upon  the  story  of  this 
very  Edwin  Drood,  and  have  come  to  Bumsteadville  to  get 
all  the  particulars.  I've  picked  up  considerable  from  Gos- 
peller Simpson,  John  McLaughlin,  and  even  the  woman  from 
the  Mulberry  Street  place  who  came  after  you  the  other 
morning.  But  now  I  want  to  know  something  from  you.  — 
What  has  become  of  your  nephew  ?  " 

He  put  the  question  suddenly,  and  with  a  kind  of  sup- 
pressed leap  at  him  whom  he  addressed.  Immeasurable 
was  his  surprise  at  the  perfectly  calm  answer,  — 

"  I  can't  r* member  hicsactly,  sir." 


MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL.  249 

"  Can't  remember !  —  Can't  remember  what  ?  " 

"  Where-I-put't." 

"//;" 

"  Yes.     Th'  umbrella." 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Clews,  in  a  rage.  "  —  Come  !  Wake  up  !  —  What  have  um- 
brellas to  do  with  this  ?  " 

Rousing  himself  to  something  like  temporary  conscious- 
ness, Mr.  Bumstead  slowly  climbed  to  his  feet,  and,  with  a 
wild  kind  of  swoop,  came  heavily  down  with  both  hands  upon 
the  shoulders  of  his  questioner. 

"What  now?"  asked  that  startled  personage. 

"  You  want  f  know  'bout  th'  umbrella  ?  "  said  Bumstead 
with  straw  hat  amazingly  awry,  and  linen  coat  a  perfect  map 
of  creases. 

"  Yes  !  —  You're  crushing  me  ! "  panted  Mr.  Clews. 

"Th'  umbrella  !  "  cried  Mr.  Bumstead,  suddenly  withdraw- 
ing his  hands  and  swaying  before  his  visitor  like  a  linen  per- 
son on  springs,  —  "  This 's  what  there's  'bout 't :  Where  th' 
umbrella  is,  there  is  Edwins  also  !  " 

Astounded  by  this  bewildering  confession,  and  fearful  that 
the  uncle  of  Mr.  Drood  would  be  back  in  his  chair  and 
asleep  again  if  he  gave  him  a  chance,  the  excited  inquisitor 
sprang  from  his  chair,  and  slowly  and  carefully  backed  the 
wildly  glaring  object  of  his  solicitation  until  his  shoulders  and 
elbows  were  safely  braced  against  the  mantel-piece.  Then, 
like  one  inspired,  he  grasped  a  bottle  of  soda  water  from  the 


250  MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL. 

table,  and  forced  the  reviving  liquid  down  his  staring  patient's 
throat ;  as  quickly  tore  off  his  straw  hat,  newly  moistened 
the  damp  sponge  in  it  at  an  eighboring  wash-stand,  and  re- 
placed both  on  the  aching  head ;  and,  finally,  placed  in  one 
of  his  tremulous  hands  a  few  cloves  from  a  saucer  on  the 
mantel-shelf. 

"You  are  better  now?  You  can  tell  me  more?"  he 
said,  resting  a  moment  from  his  violent  exertions. 

With  the  unsettled  air  of  one  coming  out  of  a  complicated 
dream,  Mr.  Bumstead  chewed  the  cloves  musingly;  then, 
after  nodding  excessively,  with  a  hideous  smile  upon  his 
countenance,  suddenly  threw  an  arm  about  the  neck  of  his 
restorer  and  wept  loudly  upon  his  bosom. 

"  My  fr'en',"  he  wailed,  in  a  damp  voice,  "  lemme  confess 
to  you.  I'm  a  mis' able  man,  my  fr'en' ;  perfectly  mis' able. 
These  cloves — these  insidious  tropical  spices  —  have  been 
thebaneofmyexistence.  On  Chrishm's  night  —  that  Chrish- 
m's  night  —  I  toogtoomany.  Wha' scons' q' nee?  I  put  m' 
nephew  an'  m'  umbrella  away  somewhere,  an  've  neverb'n 
able  terremembersince ! " 

Still  sustaining  his  weight,  the  author  of  "  The  Amateur 
Detective  "  at  first  seemed  nonplussed ;  but  quickly  changed 
his  expression  to  one  of  abrupt  intelligence. 

"  I  see,  now ;  I  begin  to  see,"  he  answered,  slowly,  and 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "  On  the  night  of  that  Christmas  din- 
ner here,  you  were  in  a  clove-trance,  and  made  some  secret 
disposition  (which  you  have  not  since  been  able  to  remem- 


MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL.  251 

ber),  of  your  umbrella  —  and  nephew.  Until  very  lately  — 
until  now,  when  you  are  nearly,  but  not  quite,  as  much  under 
the  influence  of  cloves  again  —  you  have  had  a  vague  gen- 
eral idea  that  somebody  else  must  have  killed  Mr.  Drood 
and  stolen  your  umbrella.  But  now,  that  you  are  partially 
in  the  same  condition,  physiologically  and  psychologically,  as 
on  the  night  of  the  disappearance,  you  have  once  more  a 
partial  perception  of  what  were  the  facts  of  the  case.  Am 
I  right?" 

"Tha's  it,  sir.  You're  a  ph'los'pher,"  murmured  Mr. 
Bumstead,  trying  to  brush  from  above  his  nose  the  pendent 
lock  of  hair,  which  he  took  for  a  fly. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continued  Tracey  Clews,  his  extraor- 
dinary head  of  hair  fairly  bristling  with  electrical  animation : 
"  You've  only  to  get  yourself  into  exactly  the  same  clove-y 
condition  as  on  the  night  of  the  double  disappearance,  when 
you  put  your  umbrella  and  nephew  away  somewhere,  and 
you'll  remember  all  about  it  again.  You  have  two  distinct 
states  of  existence,  you  see  :  a  cloven  one,  and  an  uncloven 
one  :  and  what  you  have  done  in  one  you  are  totally  obliv- 
ious of  in  the  other." 

Something  like  an  occult  wink  trembled  for  a  moment  in 
the  right  eye  of  Mr.  Bumstead. 

"  Tha's  ver*  true,"  said  he,  thoughtfully.  "  I've  been  'bliv- 
ious  m'self,  frequently.  Never  c'd  r'member  whar  I-owed." 

"  The  idea  I've  suggested  to  you  for  the  solution  of  this 
mystery,"  went  on  Mr.  Clews,  "  is  expressed  by  one  of  the 


252  MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL. 

greatest  of  English  writers  :  who,  in  his  very  last  work,  says  : 
<  —  in  some  cases  of  drunkenness,  and  in  others  of  animal 
magnetism,  there  are  two  states  of  consciousness  which  never 
clash,  but  each  of  which  pursues  its  separate  course  as  though 
it  were  continuous  instead  of  broken.  Thus,  if  I  hide  my 
watch  when  I  am  drunk,  I  must  be  drunk  again  before  I  can 
remember  where?  "  * 

"I'm  norradrink'n'man,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Bumstead, 
drawing  coldly  back  from  him,  and  escaping  a  fall  into  the 
fireplace  by  a  dexterous  surge  into  the  nearest  chair.  "  Th' 
lemon  tea  which  I  take  for  my  cold,  or  to  prVent  the  cloves 
from  disagreeing  with  me,  is  norrintoxicating." 

"  Of  course  not,"  assented  his  subtle  counsellor  :  "  but  in 
this  country,  at  least,  chronic  inebriation,  clove-eating,  and 
even  opium-taking,  are  strikingly  alike  in  their  aspects,  and 
the  same  rules  may  be  safely  applied  to  all.  My  advice  to 
you  is  what  I  have  given.  Cause  a  table  to  be  spread  in 
this  room,  exactly  as  it  was  for  that  memorable  Christmas- 
dinner  ;  sit  down  to  it  exactly  as  then,  and  at  the  same  hour ; 
go  through  all  the  same  processes  as  nearly  as  you  can  re- 
member ;  and,  by  the  mere  force  of  association,  you  will 
enact  all  the  final  performances  with  your  umbrella  and 
your  nephew." 

Mr.  Bumstead's  arms  were  folded  tightly  across  his  manly 
breast,  and  the  fine  head  with  the  straw  hat  upon  it  tilted 
heavily  toward  his  bosom. 

*  See  Chapter  III.,  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood. 


MR.    CLEWS  AT  HIS  NOVEL.  253 

"  I  see't  now,"  said  he  softly  ;  "  bone  han'le  'n  ferule.  I 
r" member  threshing  'm  with  it.  I  can  r'memb'r  carry* ng  —  " 
Here  Mr.  Bumstead  burst  into  tears,  and  made  a  frenzied 
dash  at  the  lock  of  hair  which  he  again  mistook  for  a  fly. 

"To  sum  up  all,"  concluded  Mr.  Tracey  Clews,  shaking 
him  violently  by  the  shoulder,  that  he  might  remain  awake 
long  enough  to  hear  it,  —  "  to  sum  up  all,  I  am  satisfied, 
from  the  familiar  knowledge  of  this  mystery  I  have  already 
gained,  that  the  end  will  have  something  to  do  with  exercise 
in  the  Open  Air!  You'll  have  to  go  outdoors  for  something 
important.  And  now  good-night." 

"  Goornight,  sir." 

Retiring  softly  to  his  own  room,  under  the  same  roof,  the 
author  of  "The  Amateur  Detective"  smiled  at  himself  before 
the  mirror  with  marked  complacency.  "  You're  a  long- 
headed one,  my  dead-beat  friend,"  he  said  archly,  "  and  your 
great  American  Novel  is  likely  to  be  a  respectable  success." 

There  sounded  a  crash  upon  a  floor,  somewhere  in  the 
house,  and  he  held  his  breath  to  listen.  It  was  the  Eitual- 
istic  organist  going  to  bed. 


254:  THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   SKELETON   IN   MCLAUGHLIN'S   CLOSET. 

NIGHT,  spotted  with  stars,  like  a  black  leopard,  crouched 
once  more  upon  Bumsteadville,  and  her  one  eye  to  be  seen 
in  profile,  the  moon,  glared  upon  the  helpless  place  with 
something  of  a  caf  s  nocturnal  stare  of  glassy  vision  for  a 
stupefied  mouse.  Midnight  had  come  with  its  twelve  tink- 
ling drops  more  of  opiate,  to  deepen  the  stupor  of  all  things 
almost  unto  death,  and  still  the  light  shone  luridly  through 
the  window-curtains  of  Mr.  Bumstead's  room,  and  still  the 
lonely  musician  sat  stiffly  at  a  dinner-table  spread  for  three, 
whereof  only  a  goblet,  a  curious  antique  black  bottle,  a 
bowl  of  sugar,  a  saucer  of  lemon-slices,  a  decanter  of  water, 


THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLINS  CLOSET.  255 

and  a  saucer  of  cloves  appeared  to  have  been  used  by  the 
solitary  diner. 

Unconscious  that,  through  the  door  ajar  at  his  back,  a 
pair  of  vigilant  human  orbs  were  upon  him,  the  Ritualistic 
organist,  who  was  in  very  low  spirits,  drew  an  emaciated 
and  rather  unsteady  hand  repeatedly  across  his  perspiring 
brow,  and  talked  in  deep  bass  to  himself. 

"  He  came  in,  af'r'  bein'  brisgly  walked  up'n-down  the 
turnpike  by  Pendragon,  and  slammed  himself  down-'n-that- 
chair,"  ran  the  soliloquy,  with  a  ghostly  nod  towards  an 
opposite  chair,  drawn  back  from  the  table.  ".'  Inebrious 
boy  ! '  says  I,  sternly,  '  how-are-y'-now  ? '  He  said  '  Poora- 
well;'  'n'  wen'  down  on-er-floor  fas'hleep  !  I  w's  scan'l'ized. 
—  Whowoonbe  ?  —  I  took  m'  umbrella  'n'  thrashed '  m  with 
it,  remarking  *F  shame!  waygup!  mis' able  boy!  's  poory- 
sight-f'r-'nuncle-t'  see-'s-nephew-'n-this-p'litical-c'ndit'n.'  — 
H'slep  on  ;  'n'  't  last  I  picked  up  him,  'n'  umbrella,  'n'  took 
'm  out  t'  some  cool  place  t'shleep  't  off.  WJierJd1  I  take 
him?  Thashwazmarrer —  WherJcT  I  leave  'm?" 

Repeating  this  question  to  himself,  with  an  almost  frenzied 
intensity,  the  gloomy  victim  of  a  treacherous  memory  threw 
an  unearthly  stare  of  bloodshot  questioning  all  over  the 
room,  and,  after  a  swaying  motion  or  two  of  the  upper  half 
of  his  body,  pitched  forward,  with  his  forehead  crashing  upon 
the  table.  Instantly  recovering  himself,  and  starting  to  rub 
his  head,  he  as  suddenly  checked  that  palliative  process  by  a 
wild  run  to  his  feet  and  a  hideous  bellow. 


256  THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLINS   CLOSET. 

"  /  SmemVr,  now  !  "  he  ejaculated,  walking  excitedly  at 
a  series  of  obtuse  angles  all  over  the  apartment.  "  Got-'t- 
knockedinto-m'-head-'t-last.  Pauper  bur1!  ground  —  J.  M'- 
GLAUGHLIN.  Down'n  cellar  —  cool  placefa'  man's  tight  — 
lef  m'  umbrella  there  by  m'stake  —  go'n'  ge^t  thishmin't — ." 

Managing,  after  several  inaccurate  aims  at  the  doorway,  to 
plunge  into  the  adjacent  bedroom,  he  presently  reap- 
peared from  thence,  veering  hard-aport,  with  a  lighted  lantern 
in  his  right  hand.  Then,  circuitously  approaching  the  neg- 
lected dining-table,  he  grasped  with  his  disengaged  digits  at 
the  antique  black  bottle,  missed  it,  went  all  the  way  around 
the  board  before  he  could  stop  himself,  clutched  and  missed 
again,  went  clear  around  once  more,  and  finally  effected  the 
capture.  "  Th  'peared  f  be,  two,"  he  muttered,  placing  the 
prize  in  one  of  his  pockets ;  and,  with  a  triumphant  stride, 
made  for  the  half-open  hall-door  through  which  the  eyes  had 
been  watching  him. 

The  owner  of  those  eyes,  and  of  a  surprising  head  of  florid 
hair,  had  barely  time  to  draw  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
corridor  and  notice  an  approaching  face  like  that  of  one 
walking  in  his  sleep,  when  the  clove-eater  swung  disjoint- 
edly  by  him,  with  jingling  lantern,  and  went  fiercely  bump- 
ing down  the  stairway.  Closely,  without  sound,  followed 
the  watcher,  and  the  two,  like  man  and  shadow,  went  out 
from  the  house  into  the  quarry  of  the  moon-eyed  black 
leopard. 

Fully  bound  now  in  the  sinister  spell  of  the  spice  of  the 


THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S   CLOSET.  257 

Molucca  islands,  Mr.  Bumstead  had  regained  that  condition 
of  his  duplex  existence  to  which  belonged  the  disposition  he 
had  made  of  his  lethargic  nephew  and  alpaca  umbrella  on 
that  confused  Christmas  night ;  and  with  such  realization  of 
a  distinct  duality  came  back  to  him  at  least  a  partial  recol- 
lection of  where  he  had  put  the  cherished  two.  Finding 
Mr.  E.  Drood  rather  overcome  by  the  more  festive  features 
of  the  meal,  —  notwithstanding  his  walk  at  midnight  with 
Mr.  Pendragon,  —  he  had  allowed  his  avuncular  displeasure 
thereat  to  betray  itself  in  a  threshing  administered  with 
the  umbrella.  Observing  that  the  young  man  still  slept  be- 
side the  chair  from  which  he  fell,  he  had  ultimately,  and  with 
the  umbrella  still  under  his  arm,  raised  the  dishevelled 
nephew  head-downward  in  his  arms,  and  impatiently  con- 
veyed him  from  the  heated  room  and  house  to  the  coolest 
retreat  he  could  think  of.  There  depositing  him,  and,  in  his 
hurry,  the  umbrella  also,  to  sleep  off,  under  reviving  atmos- 
pheric influences,  the  unseemly  effect  of  the  evening's  ban- 
quet, he  had  gone  back  on  both  sides  of  the  road  to  his 
boarding-house,  and,  with  his  boots  upon  the  pillow,  sunk  into 
an  instantaneous  sleep  of  unfathomable  depth.  Dreaming, 
towards  morning,  that  he  was  engaging  a  large  boa-con- 
strictor in  single  combat,  and  struggling  energetically  to  re- 
strain the  ferocious  reptile  from  getting  into  his  boots,  he 
had  suddenly  awakened,  with  a  crash,  upon  the  floor  —  to 
miss  his  umbrella  and  nephew,  to  forget  where  he  had  put 
them,  and  to  fly  to  Gospeller's  Gulch  with  incoherent  charges 


258  THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET. 

of  larceny  and  manslaughter.  All  this  he  could  now  vaguely 
recall,  his  present  pyschological  condition,  or  trance-state, 
being  the  same  as  then ;  and  was  going  entrancedly  back  to 
the  hiding-place  where,  with  the  best  of  motives,  he  had  for- 
getfully left  the  two  objects  dearest  to  him  in  life. 

On,  then,  proceeded  the  Ritualistic  organist,  in  the  tawny 
light  of  the  black  leopard's  eye :  his  stealthy  follower  trail- 
ing closely  after  in  the  shade  of  the  roadside  trees  where  the 
star-spotted  leopard's  black  paws  were  plunged  deepest. 
On  he  went,  in  zig-zag  profusion  of  steps  and  occasional 
high  skips  over  incidental  shadows  of  branches  which  he  took 
for  snakes,  until  the  Pauper  Burial  Ground  was  reached, 
and  McLaughlin's  hidden  subterranean  retreat  therein  at- 
tained. It  was  the  same  weird  spot  to  which  he  had  been 
brought  by  Old  Mortarity  on  the  wintry  night  of  their  unholy 
exploring  party ;  and,  without  appearing  to  be  surprised 
that  the  entrance  to  the  excavation  was  open,  he  eagerly 
descended  by  the  rickety  step-ladder,  and  held  himself  steady 
by  the  latter  while  throwing  the  light  of  his  lantern  around 
the  mouldy  walls.  .  % 

His  immediate  hiccup,  provoked  by  the  dampness  of  the 
situation,  was  answered  by  a  groan,  which,  instead  of  being 
solid,  was  very  hollow ;  and,  as  he  peered  vivaciously  for- 
ward behind  his  extended  lantern,  there  advanced  from  a  far 
corner  —  O,  woeful  man  !  O,  thrice  unhappy  uncle  !  —  the 
spectral  figure  of  the  missing  Edwin  Drood  ! 

After  a  moment's  inspection   of  the  apparition,  which 


THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET.  259 

paused  terribly  before  him  with  hand  hidden  in  breast,  Mr. 
Bumstead  placed  his  lantern  upon  a  step  of  the  ladder,  drew 
and  profoundly  labiated  his  antique  black  bottle,  thought- 
fully crunched  a  couple  of  cloves  from  another  pocket  — 
staring  stonily  all  the  while  —  and  then  addressed  the  youth- 
ful shade :  — 

"  Where's  th'  umbrella?" 

"  Monster  of  forgetfulness  !  murderer  of  memory  ! " 
spoke  the  spirit,  sternly.  "  In  this,  the  last  rough  resting 
place  of  the  impecunious  dead,  do  you  dare  to  discuss  com- 
monplace topics  with  one  of  the  departed  ?  Look  at  me,  O 
uncle,  clove-befogged,  and  shrink  appalled  from  the  dread 
sight,  and  pray  for  mercy." 

"  Ishthis  prop'r  language  t'  address-t'-y'r-relative  ? "  in- 
quired Mr.  Bumstead,  in  a  severely  reproachful  manner. 

"  Relative  ! "  repeated  the  apparition,  sepulchrally.  — 
"  What  sort  of  relative  is  he,  who,  when  his  sister's  orphaned 
son  is  sleeping  at  his  feet,  conveys  the  unconscious  orphan, 
head  downward,  through  a  midnight  tempest,  to  a  place  like 
this,  and  leaves  him  here,  and  then  forgets  where  he  has  put 
him  ?  " 

"  I  give  't  up,"  said  the  organist,  after  a  moment's  consid- 
eration. 

"  The  answer  is :  he's  a  dead-beat,"  continued  the  young 
ghost,  losing  his  temper.  "And  what,  John  Bumstead,  did 
you  do  with  my  oroide  watch  and  other  jewels  ?  " 

"Musht've  spilfm  on  the  road  here,"  returned  the  musing 


260  THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET. 

uncle,  faintly  remembering  that  they  had  been  found  upon 
the  turnpike,  shortly  after  Christmas,  by  Gospeller  Simpson. 
"  Are  you  dead,  Edwin  ?  " 

"  Did  you  not  bury  me  here  alive,  and  close  the  opening 
to  my  tomb,  and  go  away  and  charge  everybody  with  my 
murder?"  asked  the  spectre,  bitterly.  "O,  uncle,  hard  of 
head  and  paralyzed  in  recollection  !  is  it  any  good  excuse  for 
sacrificing  my  poor  life,  that,  in  your  cloven  state,  you  put 
me  down  a  cellar,  like  a  pan  of  milk,  and  then  could  not  re- 
member where  you'd  put  me  ?  And  was  it  noble,  then,  to 
go  to  her  whom  you  supposed  had  been  my  chosen  bride, 
and  offer  wedlock  to  her  on  your  own  account  ?  " 

"  I  was  acting  as  /r-executor,  Edwin,"  explained  the  un- 
cle. "  I  did  ev'thing  forth'  besht." 

"  And  does  the  sight  of  me  fill  you  with  no  terror,  no  re- 
morse, unfeeling  man  ?  "  groaned  the  ghost. 

"Yeshir,"  answered  Mr.  Bumstead,  with  sudden  energy. 
"  Yeshir.  I'm  r'morseful  on  'count  of  th'  umbrella.  Who-d'- 
yMend-'tto?" 

It  is  an  intellectual  characteristic  of  the  more  advanced 
degrees  of  the  clove-trance,  that,  while  the  tranced  individ- 
ual can  perceive  objects,  even  to  occasional  duplexity,  and 
hear  remarks  more  or  less  distinctly,  neither  objects  nor  re- 
marks are  positively  associated  by  him  with  any  perspicuous 
idea.  Thus,  while  the  Ritualistic  organist  had  a  blurred  per- 
ception of  his  nephew's  conversational  remains,  and  was 
dimly  conscious  that  the  tone  of  the  supernatural  remarks 


THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLINS  CLOSET.  261 

addressed  to  himself  was  not  wholly  congratulatory,  he  still 
presented  a  physical  and  moral  aspect  of  dense  insensi- 
bility. 

Momentarily  nonplussed  by  such  unheard-of  calmness  un- 
der a  ghostly  visitation,  the  apparition,  without  changing  po- 
sition, allowed  itself  to  roll  one  inquiring  eye  toward  the 
opening  above  the  step-ladder,  where  the  moonlight  revealed 
an  attentive  head  of  red  hair.  Catching  the  glance,  the  head 
allowed  a  hand  belonging  to  it  to  appear  at  the  opening  and 
motion  downward. 

"  Look  there,  then,"  said  the  intelligent  ghost  to  its  uncle, 
pointing  to  the  ground  near  its  feet. 

Mr.  Bumstead,  rousing  from  a  brief  doze,  glanced  indiffer- 
ently toward  the  spot  indicated;  but  in  another  instant, 
was  on  his  knees  beside  the  undefined  object  he  there  be- 
held. A  keen,  breathless  scrutiny,  a  frenzied  clutch  with 
both  hands,  and  then  he  was  upon  his  feet  again,  holding 
close  to  the  lantern  the  thing  he  had  found. 

The  barred  light  shone  on  a  musty  skeleton,  to  which  still 
clung  a  few  mouldy  shreds  left  by  the  rats ;  and  only  the 
celebrated  bone  handle  identified  it  as  what  had  once  been 
the  maddened  finder's  idolized  Alpaca  Umbrella. 

"  Aha  !  "  twitted  the  apparition ;  "  then  you  have  some 
heart  left,  John  Bumstead  ?  " 

"  Heart ! "  moaned  the  distracted  organist,  fairly  kissing 
the  dear  remains,  and  restored  to  perfect  speech  and  com- 
prehension by  the  awful  shock.  "  I  had  one,  but  it  is  bro- 


262  THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S  CLOSET. 

ken  now !  —  Allie,  my  long-lost  Allie  ! "  he  continued,  ten- 
derly apostrophizing  the  skeleton,  "  do  we  meet  thus  at  last 
again  ?  — 

'What  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves  ! 

What  tender  thought,  what  speechless  pain  ! 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain  ! ' 

Where  is  thine  old  familiar  alpaca  dress,  my  Allie  ?  Where 
is  the  canopy  that  has  so  often  sheltered  thy  poor  master's 
head  from  the  storm  ?  Gone  !  gone !  and  through  my  own 
forgetfulness ! " 

"  And  have  you  no  thought  for  your  nephew  ?"  asked  the 
persevering  apparition,  hoarsely. 

"  Not  under  the  present  circumstances,"  retorted  the 
mourner;  he  and  the  ghost  both  coughing  with  the  colds 
which  they  had  taken  from  standing  still  so  long  in  such  a 
damp  place  —  "not  under  the  present  circumstances,"  he 
repeated,  wildly,  making  a  fierce  pass  at  the  spectre  with  the 
skeleton,  and  then  dropping  the  latter  to  the  ground  in  nerve- 
less despair.  "To  a  single  man,  his  umbrella  is  wife,  mother, 
sister,  venerable  maiden  aunt  from  the  country  —  all  in  one. 
In  losing  mine,  I've  lost  my  whole  family,  and  want  to  hear 
no  more  about  relatives.  Good-night,  sir." 

"  Here  !  hold  on  !  Can't  you  leave  the  lantern  for  a  mo- 
ment?" cried  the  ghost.  But  the  heart-stricken  Ritualist 
had  swarmed  up  the  ladder  and  was  gone. 

Then,  going  up  too,  the  spectre  appeared  also  unto  two 


THE  SKELETON  IN  MCLAUGHLIN'S   CLOSET.  263 

other  men,  who  crawled  from  behind  pauper  headstones  at 
his  summons ;  the  face  of  the  one  being  that  of  J.  McLaugh- 
lin,  that  of  the  other  Mr.  Tracey  Clews'.  And  the  spectre 
walked  between  these  two,  carrying  Mr.  Bumstead's  skele- 
ton in  his  hand.* 


*  The  cut  accompanying  the  above  chapter  is  from  the  illustrated  title-page  of  the 
English  monthly  numbers  of  The  Mystery  of  Edmin  Drood  ;  —  in  which  it  is  the 
last  of  a  series  of  border-vignettes ;  — and  plainly  shows  that  it  was  the  author's  in- 
tention to  bring  back  his  hero  a  living  man  before  the  conclusion  of  the  story. 


264:  FOR  BETTER,  FOR   WORSE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

FOR  BETTER,    FOR  WORSE. 

Miss  CAROWTHERS  having  gone  out  with  Mrs.  Skammer- 
horn  to  skirmish  with  the  world  of  dry-goods  clerks  for  one 
of  those  alarming  sacrifices  in  feminine  apparel  which  wo- 
man onselfishly,  yet  never  needlelessly,  is  always  making, 
Flora  sat  alone  in  her  new  home,  working  the  latest  beaded 
pin-cushion  of  her  useful  life.  Frequently  experiencing  the 
truth  of  the  adage,  that  as  you  sew  so  shall  you  rip,  the  fair 
young  thing  was  passing  half  her  valuable  time  in  ripping 
out  the  mistaken  stitches  she  had  made  in  the  other  half; 
and  the  severe  moral  discipline  thus  endured  made  her  mad, 
as  equivalent  vexation  would  have  made  a  man  the  reverse 
of  that  word.  Flippant  social  satirists  cannot  dwell  with 
sufficient  sarcasm  upon  the  difference  between  the  invincible 
amiability  affected  by  artless  girls  in  society  and  their  occa- 
sional bitterness  of  aspect  in  the  privacy  of  home  ;  never 
stopping  to  reflect  that  there  are  sore  private  trials  for  these 
industrious  young  crochet  creatures  in  which  the  thread  of  the 
most  equable  female  existence  is  necessarily  worsted.  Miss 
Potts,  then,  although  looking  up  from  her  trying  worsted  oc- 
cupation at  the  servant  who  entered  with  a  rather  snappish 


FOR  BETTER,  FOR    WORSE.  265 

expression  of  countenance,  was  guilty  of  no  particularly  hypo- 
critical assumption  in  at  once  suffering  her  features  to  relax 
into  a  sweetly  pensive  smile  upon  learning  that  there  was  a 
gentleman  to  see  her  in  the  parlor. 

"  '  Montgomery  Pendragon,'  "  she  softly  read  from  the 
card  presented.  "  Is  he  alone,  Bridget,  dear  ?" 

"  Sorra  any  wan  with  him  but  his  cane,  Mjss  ;  and  that  he 
axed  me  wud  I  sthand  it  behind  the  dure  for  him." 

There  was  a  look  of  desperate  purpose  about  this.  When 
a  sentimental  young  man  seeks  a  private  interview  with  a 
marriageable  young  woman,  and  recklessly  refuses  at  the 
outlet  to  retain  at  least  his  cane  for  the  solution  of  the  intri- 
cate conversational  problem  of  what  to  do  with  his  hands,  it 
is  an  infallible  sign  that  some  madly  rash  intention  has  tem- 
porarily overpowered  his  usual  sheepish  imbecility,  and  that 
he  may  be  expected  to  speak  and  act  with  almost  human  in- 
telligence. 

With  hand  instinctively  pressed  upon  her  heart,  to  mod- 
erate its  too  sanguine  pulsations  and  show  the  delicate  lace 
around  her  cuffs,  Flora  shyly  entered  the  parlor,  and.  sur- 
prised Mr.  Pendragon  striding  up  and  down  the  apartment 
like  one  of  the  more  comic  of  the  tragic  actors  of  the  day. 

"  Miss  Potts  ! "  ejaculated  the  wild  young  Southern  pedes- 
trian, pausing  suddenly  at  her  approach,  with  considerable 
excitement  of  manner,  "  scorn  me,  spurn  me,  if  you  will ; 
but  do  not  let  sectional  embitterment  blind  you  to  the  fact 
that  I  am  here  by  the  request  of  Mr.  Dibble." 


266  FOR  BETTER,  FOR   WORSE. 

"  I  wasn't  scorning  and  spurning  anybody,"  explained  the 
startled  orphan,  coyly  accepting  the  chair  he  pushed  for- 
ward. "  I'm  sure  I  don't  feel  any  sectional  hatred, 'nor  any 
other  ridiculous  thing." 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  pleaded  Montgomery.  "  I  reckon  I'm  a 
heap  too  sensitive  about  my  Southern  birth  ;  but  only  think, 
Miss -Potts,  what  I've  had  to  go  through  since  I've  been 
amongst  you  Yankees !  Fancy  what  it  is  to  be  suspected 
of  a  murder,  and  have  no  political  influence." 

"It  must  be  so  absurd  !"  murmured  Flora. 

"  I've  felt  wretched  enough  about  it  to  become  a  contribu- 
tor to  the  first-class  American  comic  paper  on  the  next  floor 
below  me,"  he  continued,  gloomily.  "And  here,  to-day, 
without  any  explanation,  your  guardian  desires  me  to  come 
here  and  wait  for  him." 

"  I'm  sorry  that's  such  a  trial  for  you,  Mr.  Pendragon," 
simpered  the  Flowerpot.  "  Perhaps  you'd  prefer  to  wait  on 
the  front  stoop,  and  appear  as  though  you'd  just  come,  you 
know?" 

"  And  can  you  think,"  cried  the  young  man  with  increased 
agitation,  "  that  it  would  be  any  trial  for  me  to  be  in  your 

society,  if ?  But  tell  me,  Miss  Potts,  has  your  guardian 

the  right  to  dispose  of  your  hand  in  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Flora,  with  innocent  surprise 
and  a  pretty  blush  ;  "  he  has  charge  of  all  my  money  mat- 
ters, you  know." 

"  Then  it  is  as  I  feared,"  groaned  her  questioner,  smiting 


FOR  BETTER,  FOR    WORSE.  267 

his  forehead.  "  He  is  coming  here  to-day  to  tell  you  what 
man  of  opulence  he  wants  you  to  have,  and  I  am  to  be  wit- 
ness to  my  own  hopelessness  ! " 

"  What  makes  you  think  anything  so  ridiculous,  you  ab- 
surd thing  ?  "  asked  the  orphan,  not  unkindly. 

"  He  as  good  as  said  so,"  sighed  the  unhappy  Southerner. 
"  He  told  me,  with  his  own  mouth,  that  he  wanted  to  get 
you  off  his  hands  as  soon  as  possible,  and  thought  he  saw 
his  way  clear  to  do  it." 

The  girl  knew  what  bitter,  intolerable  emotions  were  tear- 
ing the  heart  of  the  ill-fated  secessionist  before  her,  and,  in 
her  own  gentle  heart,  pitied  him. 

"He  needn't  be  so  sure  about  it,"  she  said,  with  indignant 
spirit.  "I'll  never  marry  any  stranger,  unless  he's  awful 
rich  —  oh,  as  rich  as  anything  !  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Potts  !  "  roared  Montgomery,  suddenly,  folding 
down  upon  one  knee  before  her,  and  scratching  his  nose 
with  a  ring  upon  the  hand  he  sought  to  kiss,  "  why  will  you 
not  bestow  upon  me  the  heart  so  generously  disdainful  of 
everything  except  the  most  extreme  wealth?  Why  waste 
your  best  years  in  waiting  for  proposals  from  a  class  of 
Northern  men  who  occasionally  expect  that  their  brides,  also, 
shall  have  property,  when  here  I  offer  you  the  name  and 
hand  of  a  loving  Southern  gentleman,  who  only  needs  the 
paying  off  of  a  few  mortgages  on  his  estate  in  the  South  to 
be  beyond  all  immediate  danger  of  starvation  ?  " 

Turning  her  pretty  head  aside,  but  unconsciously  allowing 


268  FOR  BETTER,  FOR    WORSE. 

him  to  retain  her  hand,  she  faintly  asked  how  they  were  to 
live? 

"  Live  ! "  repeated  the  impetuous  lover.  "On  love,  hash, 
mutual  trust,  bread  pudding  :  anything  that's  cheap.  I'll  do 
the  washing  and  ironing  myself." 

"  How  perfectly  ridiculous  !  "  said  the  orphan,  bashfully 
turning  her  head  still  further  aside,  and  bringing  one  ear- 
ring to  bear  strongly  upon  him.  "  You'll  never  be  able  to 
do  fluting  and  pinking  in  the  world." 

"  I  could  do  anything,  with  you  by  my  side  !  "  he  retorted, 
eagerly.  "  Oh,  Miss  Potts  !  —  Flora  !  —  think  how  lonely  I 
am.  My  sister,  as  you  may  have  heard,  has  accepted  Gos- 
peller Simpson's  proposal,  by  mail,  for  her  hand,  and  is 
already  so  busy  quarrelling  with  his  mother,  that  she  is  no 
longer  any  company  for  me.  My  fate  is  in  your  hands ;  it 
is  in  woman's  power  to  either  make  or  marry  the  man  who 
loves  her " 

"Provided,  always,  that  her  legal  guardian  consents,"  in- 
terrupted the  benignant  voice  of  Mr.  Dibble,  who,  unper- 
ceived  by  them,  had  entered  the  room  in  time  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

Springing  alertly  to  an  upright  position,  and  coughing  ex- 
cessively, Mr.  Pendragon  was  a  shamefaced  reproach  to  his 
whole  sex,  while  the  young  lady  used  the  edge  of  her  right 
foot  against  a  seam  of  the  carpet  with  that  extreme  solicitude 
as  to  the  result  which,  in  woman,  is  always  so  entirely  deceiv- 


FOR  BETTER,  FOR    WORSE.  2G9 

ing  to  those  who  have  hoped  to  see  her  show  signs  of  pain- 
ful embarrassment. 

After  surveying  them  in  thoughtful  silence  for  a  moment, 
the  old  lawyor  bent  over  his  ward,  and  hugged  and  kissed 
her  with  an  unctuousness  justified  by  his  great  age  and  ex- 
treme goodness.  It  was  his  fine  old  way  of  bestowing  an 
inestimable  blessing  upon  all  the  plump  younger  women  of 
his  acquaintance,  and  the  benediction  was  conferred  on  the 
slightest  pretexts,  and  impartially,  up  to  a  certain  age. 

"  Am  I  to  construe  what  I  have  seen  and  heard,  my  dear 
as  equivalent  to  the  conclusion  of  my  guardianship  ? "  he 
asked,  smilingly. 

"Oh,  please  don't  be  so  ridiculous — oh,  I  never  was  so 
exquisitely  nervous,"  pleaded  the  helpless,  fluttered  young 
creature. 

"  I  reckon  I've  betrayed  your  confidence,  sir,"  said  Mont- 
gomery, desperately;  "but  you  must  have  known,  from  hear- 
say at  least,  how  I  have  felt  toward  this  young  lady  ever 
since  our  first  meeting,  and  should  not  have  exposed  me  to 
a  temptation  stronger  than  I  could  bear.  I  have,  indeed, 
done  myself  the  honor  to  offer  her  the  hand  and  heart  of  one 
who,  although  but  a  poor  gentleman,  will  be  richer  than 
kings  if  she  deigns  to  make  him  so." 

"  Why,  how  absurd ! "  ejaculated  the  orphan,  quickly. 
"  It's  perfectly  ridiculous  to  call  me  well  off;  and  how  could 
I  make  you  richer  than  kings  and  things,  you  know  ! ' 


270  FOR   BETTER,  FOR   WORSE. 

The  old  and  the  young  man  exchanged  looks  of  unspeak- 
able admiration  at  such  touching  artlessness. 

"  Sweet  innocence  ! "  exclaimed  her  guardian,  playfully 
pinching  her  cheek  and  privately  surprised  at  its  floury  feel- 
ing. "  What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  that,  since  our 
shrewd  Eddy  retired  from  the  contest,  I  have  been  wishing 
to  see  you  and  our  Southern  friend  here  brought  to  just  such 
terms  as  you  appear  to  have  reached  ?  What  would  you  say 
if  I  added  that,  such  consummation  seeming  to  be  the  best 
you  or  yaur  friends  could  do  for  yourself,  I  have  determined 
to  deal  with  you  as  a  daughter,  in  the  matter  of  seeing  to  it 
that  you  begin  your  married  life  with  a  daughter's  portion 
from  my  own  estate  ?  " 

Both  the  young  people  had  his  hands  in  theirs,  on  either 
side  of  him,  in  an  instant. 

"  There  !  there  ! "  continued  the  excellent  old  gentleman, 
"don't  try  to  express  yourselves.  Flora,  place  one  of  your 
hands  in  the  breast  of  my  coat,  and  draw  out  the  parcel  you 
find  there.  .  .  .  That's  it.  The  article  it  contains  once 
belonged  to  your  mother,  my  dear,  and  has  been  returned 
to  me  by  the  hands  to  which  I  once  committed  it  in  the  hope 
that  they  would  present  it  to  you.  I  loved  your  mother  well, 
my  child,  but  had  not  enough  property  at  the  time  to  con- 
tend with  your  father.  Open  the  parcel  in  private,  and  be. 
warned  by  its  moral :  Better  is  wilful  waist  than  woful  want 
of  it." 

It  was  the  stay-lace  by  which  Mrs.  Potts,  from  too  great 


FOR  BETTER,   FOR    WORSE.  271 

* 

persistence  in  drawing  herself  up  proudly,  had  perished  in 
her  prime. 

"  Now  come  into  the  open  air  with  me,  and  let  us  walk  to 
Central  Park,"  continued  Mr.  Dibble,  shaking  off  his  momen- 
tary fit  of  gloom.  "  I  have  strange  things  to  tell  you  both. 
I  have  to  teach  you,  in  justice  to  a  much-injured  man,  that 
we  have,  in  our  hearts,  cruelly  wronged  that  excellent  and 
devout  Mr.  Bumstead,  by  suspecting  him  of  a  crime  whereof 
he  is  now  proved  innocent  —  at  least  /  suspected  him.  To- 
morrow night  we  must  all  be  in  Bumsteadville.  I  will  tell 
you  why  as  we  walk."  f 


272  SOLUTION. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

SOLUTION. 

IN  the  darkness  of  a  night  made  opaque  by  approaching 
showers,  a  man  stands  under  the  low-drooping  branches  of 
the  edge  of  a  wood  skirting  the  cross-road  leading  down  to 
Gospeller's  Gulch. 

"  Not  enough  saved  from  the  wreck  even  to  buy  the 
merciful  rope  that  should  end  all  my  humor  and  impecu- 
niosity  ! "  he  mutters,  over  his  folded  arms  and  heaving 
chest.  "  I  have  come  to  this  out-of-the-way  suburb  to  end 
my  miserable  days,  and  not  so  much  as  one  clothes-line  have 
I  seen  yet.  There  is  the  pond,  however ;  I  can  jump  into 
that,  I  suppose  :  but  how  much  more  decent  were  it  to  make 
one's  quietus  under  the  merry  greenwood  tree  with  a  cord — " 

He  stops  suddenly,  holding  his  breath ;  and,  almost  simul- 
taneously with  a  sharp,  rushing  noise  in  the  leaves  overhead, 
something  drops  upon  his  shoulder.  He  grasps  it,  cautiously 
feels  of  it,  and,  to  his  unspeakable  amazement,  discovers 
that  it  is  a  rope  apparently  fastened  to  the  branches  above  ! 

"  Wonderful ! "  he  ejaculates,  in  an  awe-stricken  whisper. 
"Providence  helps  a  wretch  to  die,  if  not  to  live.  At  any 
other  time  I  should  think  this  very  strange,  but  just  now  I've 


SOLUTION.  273 

got  but  one  thing  to  do.     Here's  my  rope,  here's  my  neck, 
and  here  goes  ! " 

Heedless  of  everything  but  his  dread  intention,  he  rapidly 
ties  the  rope  about  his  throat,  and  is  in  the  act  of  throwing 
forward  his  whole  weight  upon  it,  when  there  is  a  sharp  jerk 
of  the  rope,  he  is  drawn  up  about  three  feet  in  the  air,  and, 
before  he  can  collect  his  thoughts,  is  as  abruptly  let  down 
upon  his  feet  again.  Simultaneously,  a  sound  almost  like  sup- 
pressed swearing  comes  very  clearly  to  his  ear,  and  he  is 
conscious  of  something  dimly  white  in  the  profound  darkness, 
not  far  away. 

"  Sold  again  :  signed,  J.  Bumstead,"  exclaims  a  deep  voice 
"I  thought  the  rope  was  caught  in  a  crotch;  but 'twasn't. 
Try't  once  more." 

The  astounded  hearer  feels  the  rope  tugging  at  his  own 
neck  again,  and,  with  a  half  comprehension  of  the  situation, 
calls  "  Stop  ! "  in  a  suffocating  voice. 

"Who's  there  ?"  comes  from  the  darkness. 

"  Jeremy  Bentham,  late  proprietor  of  first-class  American 
Comic  Paper.  —  Died  of  Comic  Serial.  —  Want  to  hang  my- 
self," is  the  jerky  reply  from  the  other  side. 

"  Got  your  own  rope,  sir  ?  " 

"  No.  One  fell  down  on  my  shoulders  just  as  I  was  wish- 
ing for  it ;  but  it  seems  to  be  too  elastic." 

"  That's  the  other  end  'f  my  rope,  sir,"  rejoins  the  second 
voice,  as  in  wrath.  "  I  threw*  t  over  the  branches  and 


274  SOLUTION. 

thought  it  had  caught,  and  instead  of  that  it  let  me  down, 
sir." 

"  And  drew  me  up,"  says  Mr.  Bentham. 

Before  another  word  can  be  spoken  by  either,  the  light  of 
a  dark-iantern  is  flashed  upon  them.  There  is  Mr.  Bum- 
stead,  not  three  yards  from  Mr.  Bentham ;  each  with  an 
end  of  the  same  rope  about  his  neck,  and  the  head  of  the 
former  turbaned  with  a  damp  towel. 

"Are  ye  men?"  exclaims  the  deep  voice  of  Mr.  Me- 
lancthon  Schenck  from  behind  the  lantern,  "  and  would  ye 
madly  incur  death  before  having  taken  out  life -policies  in 
the  Boreal  ?  " 

"  And  would  my  uncle  celebrate  my  return  in  this  style  ?  " 
cries  still  another  voice  from  the  darkness. 

"  Who's  that  spoke  just  then  ?  "  cries  the  Ritualistic  organ- 
ist. 

The  answer  comes  like  the  note  of  a  trumpet :  — 

"  Edwin  Drood  ! " 

At  the  same  instant  a  great  glare  of  light  breaks  upon  the 
scene  from  a  bonfire  of  tar-barrels,  ignited  at  the  higher  end 
of  the  cross-road  by  young  Smalley ;  and,  to  the  mingled 
bewilderment  and  exasperation  of  Mr.  Bumstead,  the  radi- 
ance reveals,  as  in  noonday, 'Mr.  Schenck  and  his  long-lost 
nephew  standing  before  him ;  and,  coming  toward  the  min 
festive  procession  from  Gospeller's  Gulch,  Montgomery  Pen- 
dragon  with  Flora  on  his  arm,  the  Reverend  Octavius  Simp- 
son escorting  Magnolia,  Mr.  Dibble  guarding  Mrs.  Simpson, 


t        SOLUTION.  275 

Mr.  Clews  arm  in  arm  with  John  McLaughlin,  Father  Dean 
and  Judge  Sweeney,  Miss  Carowthers,  and  the  Smythes. 

"  Trying  to  hang  yourselves  ! "  exclaims  Mr.  Dibble,  as 
the  throng  gathers  curiously  around  the  two  gentlemen  of 
the  rope. 

"  And  my  old  friend  Bentham,  too ! "  cries  the  Gos- 
peller. 

"  How  perfectly  ridiculous  !  "  warbles  Flora. 

Staring  majestically  from  one  face  to  the  other,  and  from 
thence  toward  the  illuminating  bonfire,  Mr.  Bumstead, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  towel  on 
his  head,  deliberately  draws  an  antique  black  bottle  from 
his  pocket,  moistens  his  lips  therewith,  passes  it  to  the  Com- 
ic Paper  man,  and  eats  a  clove. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  general  intoxication  ?  "  he 
then  asks,  quite  severely.  "Why  does  this  mass-meeting, 
greatly  under  the  influence  of  inferior  liquor  as  it  plainly  is, 
intrude  thus  upon  the  last  hours  of  a  Ritualistic  gentleman 
and  a  humorous  publisher  ?  " 

"Because,  Uncle  Jack,"  returns  Edwin  Drood,  holding 
his  hands  curiously  behind  him  as  he  speaks,  "  this  is  a 
night  of  general  rejoicing  in  Bumstead ville,  in  honor  of  my 
reappearance  ;  and,  directed  by  your  landlord,  Mr.  Smythe, 
we  have  come  out  to  make  you  join  in  our  cheer.  We  are  • 
all  heartily  sorry  for  the  great  anguish  you  have  endured  in 
consequence  of  my  unexplained  absence.  Let  me  tell  you 
how  it  was,  as  I  have  already  told  all  our  friends'  here.  You 


276  SOLUTION. 

know  where  you  placed  me  while  you  were  in  your  clove- 
trance,  and  I  .was  so  unbecomingly  asleep,  on  Christmas 
night.  Well,  I  was  discovered  there,  in  less  than  three 
hours  thereafter,  by  John  McLaughlin,  who  carried  me  to 
his  own  house,  and  there  managed  to  awaken  me.  Recover- 
ing my  senses,  I  was  disgusted  with  myself,  ashamed  of  what 
had  happened,  and  anxious  to  leave  Bumsteadville.  I  swore 
'  Old  Mortality '  to  secrecy " 

" — Which  I  have  observed,"  explains  McLaughlin,  nod- 
ding. 

"  —  And  started  immediately  for  Egypt,  in  Illinois,"  con- 
tinues Mr.  Drood.  "  There  I  went  into  railroading  ;  am  en- 
gaged to  a  nice  little  girl  there  ;  and  came  back  two  days 
ago  to  explain  myself  all  around.  Returning  here,  I  saw 
John  McLaughlin  first,  who  told  me  that  a  certain  Mr. 
Clews  was  here  to  unravel  the  Mystery  about  me,  and  per- 
suaded me  to  let  Mr.  Clews  work  you  into  another  visit  to 
the  cellar  in  the  Pauper  Burial  Ground,  and  there  appear  to 
you  as  my  own  ghost,  before  finally  revealing  myself  as  I 
now  do." 

The  glassy  eyes  of  the  Ritualistic  organist  are  fixed  upon 
him  in  a  most  uncomfortable  manner,  but  no  comment 
comes. 

"And  I,  Mr.  Bumstead,"  says  the  old  lawyer,  "must 
apologize  to  you  for  having  indulged  a  wrong  suspicion. 
Possibly  you  were  rather  rash  in  charging  everybody  else 
with  assassination  and  larceny,  and  offering  to  marry  my 


SOLUTION.  277 

ward  upon  the  strength  of  her  dislike  to  you  :  but  we'll  say 
no  more  of  those  things  now.  Miss  Potts  has  consented 
to  become  Mrs.  Pendragon  ;  Miss  Pendragon  is  the  betrothed 
of  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson.  — " 

"  —  Miss  Carowthers  honors  me  with  a  matrimonial  pref- 
erence," interpolates  Judge  Sweeney,  gallantly  bowing  to  that 
spinster.  — 

" —  Breachy  Mr.  Blodgett !  "  sighs  the  lady  to  herself.  — 

"  —  And  three  weddings  will  help  us  to  forget  everything 
but  that  which  is  bright  and  pleasant,"  concludes  the  lawyer. 

Next  steps  to  the  front  Mr.  Tracey  Clews,  with  his  sur- 
prising head  of  hair,  and  archly  remarks  : 

"  I  believe  you  take  me  for  a  literary  man,  Mr.  Bum- 
stead." 

"What  is  that  to  me,  sir?  Pve  no  money  to  lend,"  re- 
turns the  organist,  with  marked  uneasiness. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  proceeds  the  author  of  "  The 
Amateur  Detective,"  —  "to  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  I  have 
been  playing  the  detective  with  you  by  order  of  Mr.  Dibble, 
and  hope  you  will  excuse  my  practice  upon  you." 

"  He  is  my  clerk,"  explains  Mr.  Dibble. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Tracey  Clews  dexterously  whips  off  his 
brush  of  red  hair,  and  stands  revealed  as  Mr.  Bladams.* 

Merely  waiting  to  granulate  one  more  clove,  Mr.  Bum- 


*  In  the  original,  the  conversation  of  Mr.  Greivgious  and  Rosa,  in  Chapter  XX., 
concerning  the  mysteriously  absent  Bazzard,  the  old  lawyer's  clerk,  justifies  this 
identity  in  the  Adaptation. 


278  SOLUTION. 

stead  settles  the  rope  about  his  neck  anew,  squints  around 
under  the  wet  towel  in  a  curiously  ghastly  manner,  and  thus 
addresses  the  meeting  :  — 

"  Ladies  and' gen' le' men — I've  listened  to  y*r  impudence 
with  patience,  and  on  any  other  'casion  would  be  happy  to 
see  y"all  safe  home.  At  present,  however,  Mr.  Bentham 
and  I  desire  to  be  left  alone,  if  'ts  all  th'  same  t'  you.  You 
can  come  for  the  bodies  in  th'  morning." 

"  Bentham  !  Bentham ! "  calls  the  Gospeller,  "  I  can't 
see  you  acting  in  that  way,  old  friend.  Come  home  with 
me  to-night,  and  we'll  talk  of  starting  a  Religious  Weekly 
together.  That's  your  only  successful  American  Comic 
Paper." 

"  By  Jove  !  so  it  is  ! "  bawls  Jeremy  Bentham,  like  one 
possessed.  "I  never  thought  of  that  before  !  I'm  with 
you,  my  boy."  And,  hastily  slipping  the  rope  from  his 
neck,  he  hurries  to  his  friend's  side. 

"  And  you,  Uncle  Jack  —  look  at  this  ! "  exclaims  Mr.  E. 
Drood,  bringing  from  behind  his  back  and  presenting  to  the 
melancholy  organist  a  thing  that  looks,  at  first  glance,  like 
an  incredibly  slim  little  black  girl,  headless,  with  no  waist 
at  all,  and  balanced  on  one  leg. 

Mr.  Bumstead  reaches  for  it  mechanically;  a  look  of 
intelligence  comes  into  his  glassy  eyes;  then  they  fairly 
flame. 

"  Allie  !  "  he  cries,  dancing  ecstatically. 


SOLUTION.  279 

It  is  the  Umbrella — old  familiar  bone-handle,  brass  fer- 
rule —  in  a  bran-new  dress  of  alpaca  ! 

All  gaze  at  him  with  unspeakable  emotion,  as,  with  the 
rope  cast  from  him,  he  pats  his  dear  old  friend,  opens  her 
half  way,  shuts  her  again,  and  the  while  smiles  with  ineffable 
tenderness. 

Suddenly  a  shriek — the  voice  of  Flora  —  breaks  the  si- 
lence :  — 

"  It  rains  !  —  oh,  my  complexion  !  " 

"  Rains  ?  "  thunders  the  regenerated  Bumstead,  in  a  tone 
of  inconceivable  triumph.  "  So  it  does.  Now  then,  Allie, 
do  your  duty  ! "  and  with  a  softly  wooing,  hospitable  air,  he 
opens  the  umbrella  and  holds  it  high  over  his  head. 

By  a  common  instinct  they  all  swarm  in  upon  him,  cran- 
ing their  heads  far  over  each  other's  shoulders  to  secure  a 
share  of  the  Providential  shelter.  The  glare  of  the  great 
bonfire  falls  upon  the  scene ;  the  rain  pours  down  in  tor- 
rents :  they  crowd  in  upon  him  on  all  sides,  until  what  was 
once  a  stately  Ritualistic  man  resembles  some  tremendous 
monster  with  seventeen  wriggling  bodies,  thirty-Tour  legs, 
and  an  alpaca  canopy  above  all ! 


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**  Brick  "    Pomeroy. 

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BY  O.   W.  CAKLETON  NEW  YORK. 


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BOOK*  PUBLISHED  BY  G.  W.  CARLETON. 


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DREAM  MUSIC. — Poems  by  Frederic  Rowland  Marvin.  .  $1.50 

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WARWICK. — Anew  novel  by  Mansfield  Tracy  Walworth.  $1.75 

BIBYL  HUXTINGTON. — A  novel  by  Mrs.  J.  C.  R.  Dorr.  .  $1.75 

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UP  BROADWAY,  and  its  Sequel. — A  story  by  Eleanor  Kirk.  $1.50 

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PROMETHEUS   IN  ATLANTIS. — A  prophecy.            .           .           .  $2.OO 

TITAN  AGONISTES. — An  American  novel.         .         .         .  $2.00 


in 


